


Open For All

by JointExisting



Series: The Stories that Make Us: Open For All [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Aunt May is dead, Bullying, Domestic Avengers, Field Trip, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Identity Reveal, Irondad, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Not Spider-Man: Far From Home Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Peter Parker Has Anxiety, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is Tony Stark's Biological Child, Peter Parker is a Mess, Peter Parker's Field Trip to Stark Industries, Precious Peter Parker, Sorry Not Sorry, probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:40:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 97,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23247166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JointExisting/pseuds/JointExisting
Summary: Dammit, it’s that stupid governmental initiative.Peter clenched his fist against the desk, resisting the urge to shake his head at the small print;Secretary of Education, Maria Rosendale, maintains the nation-wideOpen For Allinitiative for the enhancement of students and progressive learning by taking the classroom to the companies.It's that delightful time of the year again: the Field Trip and, of course, it's to Stark Industries because where else would it be with Peter's luck?//Starts off as field trip trope, goes into something more//
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: The Stories that Make Us: Open For All [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1704277
Comments: 574
Kudos: 1588
Collections: All Marvel works that I like (or most of them), Collection of Peter's Fieldtrips to Stark Industries, Really good Irondad and Spiderson fanfics





	1. Setting the Scene

**Author's Note:**

> oh wow like I totally need to start another thing because I am just so totally not busy
> 
> Anyway! Yes, I'm jumping on this bandwagon because I love these field trip stories and my head wasn't going to let me _not_ write one. It's all pretty planned out tho, so I'll pop it into my schedule somewhere and work out a day (and try and stick to it).  
> Disclaimer: All I know about the American government and school system comes from researching wiki, high school movies, other field trip fics and the 1800's. Please forgive anything too outlandish.  
> Enjoy!
> 
> Edit: The awesome [InformalFallacy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InformalFallacy/pseuds/InformalFallacy) has very politely made a TVTropes page for Open For All ! [Click Here!](https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Fanfic/OpenForAll) to go to it :)  
> 

Peter stared at the downturned permission slip on his desk, slouching back into his chair as the full weight of Pepper’s statement at breakfast – which he’d, at the time, ignored due to the pancakes topping ten on his plate – crashed over him. He stared listlessly at the slip, resisting the urge to put his head in his hands.

###### 

“ _Peter_ ,” said Pepper, a little more uptight than usual. The new products were delayed, thanks to a manufacturing error in one of the German factories receiving the wrong pieces from one of the South Korean factories, and she was evidently (as always) more stressed about it than anyone else at the long table.

But that wasn’t his fault, which judging from her tone alone was all he was about to be presented with: blame. Not that Pepper had ever blamed him for anything—except that time he’d nearly managed to blow up half the sitting room, which had been a joint venture between himself and Clint anyway, not that the archer had taken any responsibility.

Peter kept his eyes set firmly on the stack of pancakes in front of him, oozing maple syrup and topped with an unhealthy amount of bacon.

“Peter,” Pepper tried again. “Listen. Something is going to happen at school today, and you’re probably not going to like it.” She sat primly in her chair next to Mr. Stark, eating her own pancakes—a much reduced amount in comparisons to a few of the towers around the table. “But this is actually out of SI’s hands, so I thought I’d give you advance warning so you can prepare suitably for it.”

Humming, Peter delivered a non-committal response as he dug into his pancakes.

###### 

Why the Hell hadn’t he _listened?_ He should have figured it out; he was smart, after all, smarter than most of the people in the classroom, teacher included, even considering his school was STEM—so why hadn’t he?

The slip mocked him as he shoved his elbows against his desk with a little force, rattling it and causing a few of his classmates to glance across to him. Mr. Harrington recalled their attention easily, though he was having a hard time gaining Peter’s. “... So, we should take this opportunity to immerse ourselves in the environment of the fields you’ll one day be working in.” Pacing along the length of the white board, Mr. Harrington slowed up and finally came to a stop. “Now that that’s settled – would you actually like to know where you’re going on your field trip?”

A collective murmur came from most of the class, Peter excluded. His stomach churned as he watched Mr. Harrington’s mouth form around the words, “Turn over your slips.” But he was already prepping himself for the inevitable explosion of noise.

The rustle of paper splintered around him and—

“No way!” shouted Flash from a desk forward, practically leaping from his seat as the noise bubbled around him. “Stark Industries? We’re going to _Stark Industries?_ ”

“That’s right, Flash,” Mr. Harrington preened, turning to the white board. “Now, class, I have to go over a few things with you...”

Peter continued not to listen, his eyes ghosting across the words **STARK INDUSTRIES FIELD TRIP** with calculated horror in his system. It was scheduled for Friday – this Friday, Peter realised with dread, which was one of the weekends Mr. Stark and a delightful array of Avengers spent in New York. _Why not next week?_ he thought with dismissive concern, knowing too well it was futile to even begin planning anything—to try and convince Pepper to have it rescheduled. There was no point of that considering, as he read the slip more carefully, he realised it really _was_ out of their hands.

 _Dammit, it’s that stupid governmental initiative._ Peter clenched his fist against the desk, resisting the urge to shake his head at the small print; _Secretary of Education, Maria Rosendale, maintains the nation-wide **Open For All** initiative for the enhancement of students and progressive learning by taking the classroom to the companies_. If there was one name (well, there were quite a few actually) which got dragged through the mud at dinner, it was Secretary Rosendale’s.

Thankfully, Peter had never met her but he’d witnessed the aftermath of a meeting Mr. Stark had taken with her on discussion of the stupid Open For All scheme; she’d been hoping to have an endorsement from Stark Industries to put on her papers—especially after failing to get one from Oscorp. But Mr. Stark – having been recently chastened by Pepper for not taking enough interest in paperwork – had read through the entire 243-page document and said he wouldn’t give a penny to it in a conversation Peter was reliably informed went like:

Mr. Stark: “Look, I have kids. I know kids. This could be a good thing—except you’re the current US administration. You just cut funding to underprivileged schools, and stopped supporting valuable initiatives which sought to put good kids without a hope in hell of gettin’ somewhere into internships like ours. We’re still _funding ours privately_.”

Secretary Rosendale: “With all due respect-”

Mr. Stark: “And that’s how you lose all of mine. Please, continue.”

Secretary Rosendale: “Mr. Stark. Those initiatives from the previous government were outdated and difficult to safeguard. _Open For All_ will see classrooms and schools around the country being able to go into places like Stark Industries to see how it _really_ works—and will hopefully push the students to work harder, so they can experience the kind of wealth they’ve only ever seen in your flash and bang on television.”

Peter had scoffed at this point of Mr. Stark’s retelling as they’d worked on converting a diesel engine, and Mr. Stark had nodded in such a way as to state, “ _Stupid, right? When the kids they’re supposedly ‘helping’ into the sectors with this stupid initiative are actually the ones who get Ferraris for their birthdays, anyway.”_ It was a difficult thing to communicate when you had a wrench between your teeth, but Peter had speed-read the paperwork afterwards just to see what it was all about, and he thought that was pretty close.

Unfortunately, in not endorsing it, Secretary Rosendale had decided to take it a few steps further—and write the damn thing into law (thankfully with a few corrections, to give a ‘select’ few underprivileged – but not underperforming – schools access, too) and it passed. It passed _way too easily_.

Dinner that evening, one of the rarer 'family meals', Peter remembered, had been Thai food, and the entire meal was spent with Pepper trying not to shout down her phone at reporters and Mr. Stark angrily texting Rhodey and Dr. Strange. Peter had finished in record time and gone off to tinker with an old clock in his room and video-chat Ned until midnight, when Mr. Stark had barged in and told him to either go to sleep or come to the lab.

School the next day was absolutely shit with the hour of sleep he managed on an uncomfortable spinning chair under one of Mr Stark’s oil-smeared hoodies, but _damn it was so worth it_.

Now, though, the chickens had come home to roost and Peter was about to find out all the annoying little nuances that came with _Open For All_. No wonder Mr. Stark had been so docile by his fourth coffee this morning, and Pepper had whisked herself away to the office as soon as she could. The other Avengers, too, had looked a bit annoyed, which Peter had at first taken to being because of the extra work they were doing promoting peace thanks to the new-and-improved (and ratified) Sokovia Accords. (God, so much shit had been passed through lately--not that the Accords were shit, but...)

So, they’d been briefed and Peter _hadn’t?_ It was a cruel realisation, and he grabbed his phone out to text... Well, he could always rely on Happy.

 **Pete** : wth is this field trip?  
 **Hapster** : Didn’t anyone tell you about that? It’s this Friday; it’s from that stupid OFA scheme.  
 **Pete** : yeah worked that out. Why is Midtown doing it?  
 **Hapster** : It’s a STEM school, and it’s on their list. And so is SI. Would you have rather gone to Oscorp again?

Peter visible shuddered at the empty threat. If the field trip _had_ been to Oscorp, Mr. Stark wouldn’t have let him go. He’d rather have had Peter fall off a twenty-storey building without his web shooters than have Peter anywhere near Oscorp ever again—and that wasn’t just because of the spider bite, or that they were fledgling competitors, or even because Mr. Stark hated the Osborns with every ounce of his stuffing (He really did, and Peter _concurred_ instead of just agreed - because he loved annoying him).

No, no: It was because if Peter stepped into the lobby, _everything_ would go to shit. Every cloak, every attempt at subterfuge, every precaution would have been worthless and, even though Peter wasn’t allowed to know his bodyguard and identity protection bill, he knew it had more zeros than there had any right being.

“Mr. Parker, are you listening?” Mr. Harrington was suddenly in front of him, twitching his nose at Peter like a rabbit about to have the best damn treat in the world—and that to Mr. Harrington was being able to send Peter to detention.

“Of course I am, Mr. Harrington,” said Peter, turning his phone screen-down. His eyes caught the clock on the wall. “I... was just pulling up my email – to you, earlier this week – about those assignments, because you didn’t respond... And class was almost over, so...” Peter clutched at straws, mimicking the smile Pepper had him working on for when the inevitable happened.

This seemed to subdue the overambitious and ratty teacher. Mr. Harrington dropped his raised shoulders and gave a single nod, turning to walk back to the white board. “Well, Mr. Parker, we can discuss that in a moment once class is over—but please, you need to listen to the information regarding this field trip.” He leant back against his desk, trying to be _that_ teacher who was hip and cool, and definitely wasn’t wearing a piss-yellow jacket with a posh tissue he never used poking out of the pocket.

Mr. Dell was _so_ much better.

Mr. Harrington ignored hygiene decency and scratched his beard as he grabbed up the packets on his desk, handing them to Cindy Moon to distribute. “Thank you, Ms. Moon. Now, in the folder you’ll find the _Open For All_ pamphlet, along with Stark Industries’ terms and conditions for visitation—and their rules, which you’ll have to follow at all times. There’s also a small card to fill out and return by-” He checked his notebook, spread awkwardly out on the desk under a cold coffee, “By tomorrow. These will be for your badges, which you’ll need for the tour.”

The class mumbled excitedly at the prospect of having SI _merch_. Peter just wrinkled his nose and left a reminder on his homework to ask Pepper if he needed to do that—it wasn’t like he could ask Mr. Harrington.

The teacher didn’t even believe Peter’s internship was real – no one did, which would have been hilarious if the paperwork wasn’t all in order. Mr. Stark even wrote phony reports for the school’s benefit. Sometimes Peter wondered if Principal Morita even believed him.

With Mr. Harrington distracted, Peter turned his phone up and wrote to Happy again:

 **Pete** : do u know what dinner is tonight i’m starving  
 **Hapster** : No. Also, learn how grammar works, please. You’re just as bad as your Dad.

_Dad._

Peter squirmed in his seat. He still wasn’t sure about the _Dad_ thing yet. If he had to worry about that, along with the field trip, his grades, and all of his other work (the last two weren’t big worries, really), he wasn’t sure how to find the headspace. A quarter each to make a whole sounded right, and the math worked out, but ever since the tests—ever since May... Ever since _everything_ , he’d been more than just preoccupied with _Dad_.

“ _You don’t have to call me dad, kid. Nothing has to change between us—just let me help you, OK?_ ”

It wasn’t that simple – at the time, Peter had hoped it was – but Mr. Stark was wrong because _everything_ had to change, especially after May died suddenly. Peter’s first big expense had been her apartment, which Pepper thought was a great idea—it meant no one snooping around as to why Peter’s address was suddenly the Tower, because all he had to do was pretend he still lived in Queens, in the beat-up apartment complex. No one was going to ask questions—especially when not many people even knew May had died.

Peter remembered the conversation. He didn’t like to, but it was hard not to when he’d been sat in Pepper’s office with May’s lawyer, a greyhound-like woman, and the SI attorneys, big gruff pit bulls the lot of them, and Pepper and Mr. Stark, and they were reading through May’s will. It had recently been updated, to include _Tony Stark_ as legal guardian should anything happen to her (with extensive paperwork to confirm Mr. Stark as Peter’s biological father, and a hand-written letter from Mr. Stark as confirmation Peter himself hadn’t even seen).

There were a lot of things Peter either hadn’t seen or hadn’t known about May. Like he hadn’t known she had a grave reserved and paid-for in Italy, or that she had a little bit of money put aside for her ticket there. She didn’t want a funeral either: just to be put in the Italian soil.

Peter respected her wishes, or at least he tried to. Mr. Stark flew them out there with her, as he had some business in Milan he should sort out anyway, and Peter had quietly requested a service. A small one. On the private plane home to New York was when he cried, sitting away from Mr. Stark and Happy. He’d always thought she would be buried with Uncle Ben, where he could visit her—he couldn’t help but feel the loose threads of betrayal tying his heart together, entangling it like a web around a helpless fly.

So much had happened since everything else had happened, and this was just another thing that had to happen – the field trip, the last one before he left Midtown and went on to college--if he went on to college. He could get through it.

He’d gotten pretty good at getting through things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Bonus_ :
> 
>  **Hapster** : Pepper says you'll probably want Thai for dinner, with the day you've had. But it's up to you.
> 
>  **Pete** : actually I've gone off thai. Pizza sounds great tho.


	2. Happenings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot happens, and a lot doesn't happen.
> 
> Just like a lot _has_ happened, and a lot hasn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _*Throws chapter and runs away*_
> 
> Notes;  
> 1) there is a small suicide mention in relation to the Blip, but it does not refer to anyone in particular or the main characters.  
> 2) ~~I might pop in and quickly edit this for typos at some point in the near future (like later today future) as I think my editing on it is a little rustier than I'm happy with.~~ Done. Thank you for your patience!  
> 3) re-edited for grammar as of 30/03/2020.
> 
> The awesome [InformalFallacy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InformalFallacy/pseuds/InformalFallacy) has very politely made a TVTropes page for Open For All ! [Click Here!](https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Fanfic/OpenForAll) to go to it :)

“I can’t believe I’m going to miss the field trip!”

“Ned, you’ve been to SI, like, a hundred times.”

“No, I haven’t, Peter! I’ve been _thirty-eight_ times!” Ned’s face stared at him through the video feed, the horizon of Hawaii rising behind him with the trill of birds and the lap of ocean against sun-hot sand.

He stared glumly at Peter, his paused _Nintendo Switch_ sitting in his lap. It wasn’t Peter’s fault Ned’s grandma got ill and they’d rushed away to tend and care for her—that was two weeks ago, and Ned wasn’t due back for another three as his parents had ‘lovingly’ decided it was a great time for a family vacation now the risk of sudden death was gone. Peter had sucked his lips in at that and raised his eyebrows.

Ned had wasted no time in assuring Peter his first choice college – New Jersey Institute of Technology – was set and paid for thanks to a fund and, despite his lacklustre grades in _some_ subjects (PE, anyone?), there was no way he _wasn’t_ going to get in for a bachelor’s. Peter could probably say the same, if he actually had a clue where he was going to college. Mr. Stark had thrown an MIT pamphlet at him a couple of times (“I got some pull there.”), and Dr. Banner had quietly suggested Penn State (“I could probably, you know... help you.”) but Peter wasn’t sure—for one thing, what on earth did he want to study? He could go for engineering – almost any branch of it – or biology, or tech (although he wouldn’t call software his strong point). He should ask people about what they thought was best for him, get a few insights into the courses—there were enough geniuses around him, after all, who loved talking about themselves.

Peter scribbled a note of anyone he knew who he could ask, obviously distracted as Ned continued to rage about the field trip. After a while, even Peter found it tedious. “Hey, Ned? Cut it out, man. You can have a private tour when you get back.”

“That’s not the point, Peter! I won’t get to—to see the labs and ask questions, and watch Flash get his ass handed to him! And Mr. Harrington, too!”

Firstly, Peter ignored Ned's insistence on adding their teacher to that list, and then raised an eyebrow. “Why would Flash get his ass handed to him?” he asked with all the seriousness of their comic book conversations, sitting into his chair with his pencil to nibble on. A gentle reminder from FRIDAY (which sounded scarily similar to Pepper’s little clears of the throat) chalked in from somewhere above him and he took the rubbery bit away from his mouth with a sigh.

Ned looked at him like he was an idiot. “ _Seriously_ , Peter? You don’t think your dad would _murder_ him if he saw first-hand the shit Flash puts you through?”

Peter startled at the familiar image of Mr. Stark he was presented with in his head when Ned said _Dad_. “Flash isn’t—well, he _is_ an idiot, Ned, but not even he would jeopardise a field trip to SI.” Peter hoped he wouldn’t anyway; the last thing he wanted to have to explain to Flash was why _Iron man_ was personally going to smite him if he so much as looked at Peter badly. It was true that Peter had not once mentioned the bullying to Mr. Stark, or Pepper, or anyone else who resided either in the Tower or were part of the ‘family’.

Not including Harley Keener, of course. Harley knew. Peter snapped his pencil at the memory. _FRIDAY knows as well, but she’d never tell on me._

“-Flash is totally—Whoa, Peter, what the Hell did that pencil do to you?” Ned asked with a crude bout of laughter which seemed to echo around the room, causing Peter to blush furiously and turn down the volume. His headache, present since the announcement of the field trip, throbbed. “Anyway,” Ned continued, a little awkwardly after the silence set in. “You _are_ going to tell someone about Flash before the day, right? In case he does something?”

“Ned, he’s not going to,” said Peter quickly, lying the offending pencil on his desk. He sighed. “Look, man, I’m really sorry about you missing the field trip—but I mean it, you can have a private tour when you get back. That way, you won’t even have to deal with the stupid Open For All shit either, or their _approved_ tour guides.” Peter started setting his homework into neat piles, separating from done, to easy, to time-consuming but pretty easy, to Spanish. “You can have one of the SI tour guides instead.”

Ned jostled his phone a bit to grab a drink, settling back. “Have you ever seen the OFA tours?”

Peter cut a glance over to the door, hearing movement in the hallway. “Of course I have. They’re fu-” He stopped himself, which made Ned raise an eyebrow and laugh. “Hey, I don’t want the language protocol to kick in!” Peter bristled. “So, yeah, I have seen them. Usually, I get dragged out of whatever _I’m_ doing so rich kids can ask me pointless questions—in all the tours I’ve witnessed, maybe one of the kids had a future in engineering. _One_. Is... It's depressing, 'ya know?”

Ned snorted. “Peter, you chat like _you_ aren’t a rich kid now—you know it hit me the other day? When I was in the sea, that I’m friends with the _heir to Stark Industries_?”

The worked-up blush Peter had managed to subdue flushed over his skin and he started to fidget as Ned continued talking. Of course Peter knew that. Peter had seen the paperwork—had seen Mr. Stark’s signature, witnessed first-hand the sheer belief he had in Peter just a few weeks ago when they’d been invited (as _The Stark Family_ ) to an exclusive party in Manhattan—it was practically on their doorstep, so they should go Pepper decided. Peter hadn’t wanted to go, not really, but he’d been _expected_ to go, so he had – to show willing.

He’d gotten ready, except for one thing: he hadn’t been able to do his tie. His hands were shaking too much; the last time he’d done it, it had been to May’s service and he just... Peter had steeled himself and gone to Mr. Stark, who was in the living room, and on his phone as Pepper was finishing up her makeup in the bathroom. Immediately on seeing the issue, Mr. Stark chucked his phone at a cushion and got up with no questions asked to start fussing over the Windsor knot. Afterwards, he’d taken Peter by the shoulders and smiled. “Thank you for coming, Peter. I’m very proud of you.” He patted his hands down Peter’s arms and then stood back, gesturing at him with an approving nod. Pepper came in a moment later, looking dolled up in purple, and they left to the party.

It hadn’t gone on too long – a couple of hours, which meant Peter could still finish up the last bits of homework and watch a movie when he got home—Peter stiffened in the present, the memory dispersing around him, as Ned broke off his nattering for his mother calling him to join them. “Damn,” Ned swore, scrunching up his nose. “I never got to finish my level.”

“Sorry, Ned. I kept you,” Peter apologised, though it had actually been Ned who insisted on the call halfway through his homework after he’d finally caved and texted him about the field trip—MJ would never have done it, but Peter had to: Ned would have been incredibly upset if he hadn’t known, but then again he was also upset at not being able to go. A catch twenty-two.

“It’s fine, Peter,” Ned sing-songed, fluttering his palm at the screen. “You better text me if anything happens on the field trip.”

Peter snorted, letting out a bucking laugh from deep in his stomach. “Are you kidding? Open For All tour groups aren’t allowed their phones!” he sputtered, but inside he realised that did pose a slight problem to him. If he needed to communicate with anyone upstairs, he’d have to use FRIDAY, which he wasn’t keen on doing in front of everyone. Although he maybe liked the idea of showing Flash his internship _was_ real, there were better ways of doing it than having a chat with the AI.

Ned looked more than a little bemused. “Really? Jeez, so... I mean, photos aren’t allowed in the labs anyway, but...”

“That’s true,” Peter replied with an all-knowing nod. He’d taken quite a few photos in the labs himself though. “They usually give them little notebooks, from what I’ve seen.” Suddenly, there came a knock at the door and Peter turned in his swirling chair. Ned craned his neck, but that was a little pointless on a screen.

“Hey, kiddo – can I come in?”

Peter turned back to Ned and gave him a fond smile. Ned returned it, waved his goodbyes and disconnected. Peter downed the screen of the Starkpad and called out, “It’s open, Mr. Stark.”

The doorknob turned and Mr. Stark pushed it open, leaning into the room. “It’s time for dinner with the team – but, hey, can I come in and... Can we have a quick chat, kid?”

Peter raised an eyebrow. From his previous experience with those words, they were never a good thing to hear. His heart leapt into his throat and he swallowed it down again, giving a slow, mechanic nod. “Sure?” He blew his cheeks out unknowingly, or perhaps he’d had the habit pointed out to him a couple of times now and he was just in denial.

“Don’t sound so scared, Pete. You aren’t in trouble.” Mr. Stark walked quickly into the room; although he was a man who could afford to take his time, he didn’t. He had to have everything done last week, or at least by the second, discounting the obvious things which bored him stiff. There were times he sauntered, but they were usually with purpose and never out of leniency. He came to a stop beside Peter’s desk and leant into his hips. “How’s the homework?”

“It’s going well, Mr. Stark.”

“Kid, would it kill you to call me Tony? Even _Steve_ calls me Tony.”

“That’s because he disrespects you,” Peter countered, eyes hard. He knew his tone was pissed, but he hadn’t expected the older man to jolt back, blinking at the usually mild-mannered teenager. “You-you can hear it – the way he says it,” Peter clarified. Even as a kid, he hadn’t favoured Captain America over Iron Man; the righteous attitude had been an immediate turn off from Peter’s point of view. “Like, ‘ _Tony_ ’. (It’s not a good mimic, Peter knows; his voice doesn’t go that low) He makes it sound like an imposition, that he _has_ to use your name—like he’s exhausted with you all the time.” _It pisses me off_ , Peter silently added to himself, looking across at the homework he still hadn’t completed.

Above him, beside him, Mr. Stark breathed out a long sigh and attached a chuckle to the end of it. A callused hand reached out and found Peter’s shoulder. He flicked his eyes to it—looked at the ridges, the fading scars, the nicks and the dark, scratchy skin from new and old burns. It moved into his hair a second later, sweeping back his fringe. “Peter,” he said, a rough kindness filtering through his voice. “You know—well, I don’t need to tell you Steve and I have had disagreements.” Mr. Stark crouched down so they were level, and he took Peter’s hands. “But I’d _love it_ if you could at least call me Tony.”

Peter folded his fingers over Mr. Stark’s, worn from a life lived hard when it could have easily been lived soft; it gave him pause as he touched them, thinking back to the approaching possibility of _college_. Did he want hands like these? Did he want hands which never looked the same from one day to the next, roughened by a passion for working? “Can I- Can I think about it?”

“Sure, kid.” Mr. Stark pulled his hands away (Peter tried not to make it obvious he chased their constant warmth) and ruffled Peter’s hair, causing them both to laugh—they had similar laughs, Peter realised a few weeks ago when he was watching back a video someone had taken in the workshop. He still wasn’t sure what to think about it. “Anyway!” Mr. Stark cleared the settled emotion and turned to the door, gesturing for Peter to follow. “Talk. We gotta talk about - this Friday.”

“That’s what you wanted to talk about?” Peter asked, as he tidied a few bits and pieces into their rightful area on his desk before switching out the light and getting up, straightening out his shirt and the jumper overtop it. “The stupid field trip? Not... I dunno, college?” He hadn’t meant to blurt that out.

Mr. Stark’s eyes lit up. “You wanna talk about college, Pete?”

“Uh-”

“Thought not. Hah. No, I want—well, I need to talk to you about the field trip because, well, _obviously_ you live here.” Mr. Stark turned on his toe and opened his arms, before clapping his hands back together, “It’s a bit pointless – you could probably _give_ tours – and especially because it’s this OFA crap.”

Peter’s eyes lit up this time. “Mr. Stark, are you saying I don’t _have_ to go on the field trip?”

“Uh, well, no. You do,” Mr. Stark responded more than a little gloomily, reaching up to scratch his beard in habitable thinking. “I checked with Pepper about that, thought we could bunk up in the lab all day instead, but she said it has required attendance or some shi—noodle. Shinoodle.” He glanced at the ceiling, but FRIDAY didn’t comment. “But, hear me out, what if we used this opportunity to discredit the _Open For All_ scheme once and for all?”

“Mr. Stark, are you suggesting—you want me to sabotage the field trip?” It was exactly the kind of half-brained idea Mr. Stark _would_ think up. There was a part of Peter which shared the enthusiasm he saw sparking in Mr. Stark’s eyes, but another part of him also considered the possibility of failure as a larger reality. Still, he was interested; he’d gotten through worse things—like falling buildings. How badly could discrediting a governmental initiative really go? “What did you have in mind?”

Mr. Stark grinned as they rounded a corner into the infamous living room of the Stark's private residence. “Sabotage is a big word, kiddo. I was thinking more along the lines of having a bit of fun, poking around their carefully-written guidelines and seeing if we can get _them_ to do the real discrediting.” He folded an arm over Peter’s shoulder and tugged him close as they came within earshot of the others, “Even if it doesn't work, we could still promote our own internship positions.”

Peter’s heart pulsed. “Mr. Stark, you know no one actually believes I _have_ an internship?”

“You don’t. Actually, you have a job—does the school know it’s really more of a job? Is it a job to be _training to one day takeover a multi-billion dollar company_? Do they _know_ we made the _Forbes_ Rich List again?” Mr. Stark played up his act as they neared the table and a few faces looked up at them, a couple hello’s were thrown and a good evening or three. “And what do you mean, they don’t _believe_ you, exactly?”

Peter tried to shrug out of Mr. Stark’s hold to grab his chair, but he held tight on to Peter’s shoulder. “Uh, well—most of the internship positions are taken up by graduates.” He racked his head for examples to the contrary, as Mr. Stark looked to be doing if his frown and eyes-to-the-skies was anything to go by. “So, you know, High School student Peter Parker doesn’t really fit the description.” He wasn’t about to mention how Mr. Harrington had called him out in class once, after going on SI’s website and pointing out Peter couldn’t _possibly_ be an intern. He’d basically gotten called a liar in front of his whole class by a teacher, and that – well, he wasn’t interested in legality, but he was vaguely sure there had to be some safespace policies against that.

Despite Ned begging him to tell someone about that incident, Peter still hadn’t. He wasn’t planning to; it didn’t hurt anyone but him, anyway, so why go through the hassle? He'd get through it.

Mr. Stark looked at him and then, slowly, gave a considerate nod. He patted Peter’s shoulder once more and added, “We’ll work something out, Pete.”

Peter took his seat and stared down at his packed plate, throwing a thankful smile about the table in lieu of knowing who had cooked dinner. He ate his share, and then did the same again, leaving to grab a sweater at some point and coming back to find Clint had stolen his greenbeans. After dinner, and without a dessert, Peter retired to the living room with the others, chucking himself on to the sofa beside Natasha, who had her head ducked into files. “Business?” he asked when she flicked her eyes at him.

“Yes,” Natasha replied, shaking her head at the text. “But it isn’t important—are you looking forward to your field trip, Peter?” She closed the folder and shoved it under the table onto a ledge. “Despite it being OFA?”

“No, I’m not,” Peter replied, glaring at the table where he’d stashed the permission slip and the packet. “And not just because it’s OFA, Nat. I _live_ here—I _work_ here. I know the Tower as well as Pepper does. Why do I have to go?” If there was one person he trusted with being completely straight with him and his feelings, it was probably Natasha. She didn’t fumble on his awkward questions, and she generally gave good advice. For all his faults, Clint was good too; whether that was the father in him, Peter tried not to dwell on.

“Because it’s your class, and I imagine it’s required,” Natasha said, reaching to grab the packet and open it, pulling out various bits and pieces and chucking them in his lap. Bruce, passing, reached to take the OFA pamphlet with a smile. “That a good idea, Bruce?” Natasha asked, eyeing the government seal.

Peter, too, wondered truthfully if it was. Although Bruce – continuing his guise as Smart Hulk – was feeling better these days toward anger management, there had been a few close calls—and Peter didn’t feel like getting in trouble with Pepper again over the sitting room. A smart person's mind is still fully capable of anger. “You’ll only get mad reading that.”

“I know, I know,” said Bruce, settling in a chair. “I just want a flick through – I have to know something about this OFA thing, considering one of your stops on the tour is my lower lab.” He settled a pair of glasses over his eyes, adjusting them when they slid down his nose a little awkwardly. “I mean, I-I don’t _know_ if I’m gonna be there? But, if you’re there, Peter, I might.”

Peter paled. “That’s the last thing I need, Dr. Banner,” he said, as the other Tower-bound and visiting Avengers popped in and settled around for the evening. “No one even believes I intern with Mr. Stark.”

“Mr. Stark,” said the man in question, sitting down on Peter’s other side. Pepper was working late, or so Peter had been told briefly, on some skewed accounts no one could make heads or tails of—obviously, that meant calling in the CEO. “Mr. Stark. Mr. Stark. Mr. Stark,” he laughed. “Perhaps I should begin calling you _Mr. Parker_.” He grabbed the remote control before Clint could get it and, much to Steve and Bucky’s delight from their loveseat somewhere to the left, he popped on an old black and white movie.

 _That won’t last_ , thought Peter, letting out a sigh; he knew exactly why, too. “I know. School night.” Peter made to stand, but Mr. Stark grabbed his wrist.

“And no Spider-Manning until your homework’s done, Spiderling.”

Peter never could find it in him to rip his hand out of the older man’s grip; it felt too personal to do it. Too much. “All right – I wasn’t even gonna go out tonight! I got an assignment due tomorrow, and I’m expecting a Spanish quiz... And...” And he didn’t want to; he hadn’t wanted to go out in a while, even though he knew as soon as he popped the mask on and heard Karen welcome him, he’d feel like it. As soon as he hopped on to the balcony ledge and surveyed the horizon, he’d feel like it. As soon as he shot his first web, he’d feel like it.

But you sorta had to _feel like it_ before you got to that point, which Peter just found himself _not_ being. “Can I just- Can I just go?”

Mr. Stark’s hold loosened, and Peter let his hand drop listlessly to his side. “Sure, Pete. I’ll pop in and see you in a bit—Do you want anything?”

“No, thank you.” _Tony_ , he added inwardly, his cheeks tinting as he tested the word in his head a little. It would- it would stick, he knew it would; things did have a tendency to stick to him after all. Peter felt his phone buzz in his pocket and he grabbed it out, waving at the others. “Night.”

“Good night, Peter!” came a quiet chorus, well-aware of his sensitive hearing. Peter ducked out into the hallway, swiping his thumb across the screen and pressing the _call_ button a second or so later. She answered just as he got to his room and he brightened up as he said, “Hey, MJ—I didn’t see you at school today. Is everything OK?”

###### 

“Something’s bothering him,” Clint said once Peter was gone, having claimed his spot on the sofa between Tony and Natasha. “And it’s not just the field trip—Lila hated her OFA trip, too, but she dealt with it. Peter’s...”

“Maybe he’s depressed,” said Steve, curling a finger in Bucky’s hair. “Have you spoken to him, Tony?”

Tony, for his worth, could see what Peter meant about the way Steve said his name: it did sound exhausted; bored before Tony even had a chance to respond. The realisation he hadn't noticed before now niggled him a little. “Yeah, sure.” He pressed a few buttons on the remote and loaded up a movie better suited to the general viewer and not just the ancient ones. “So, Rhodey’s arriving Wednesday.”

“Tony, this could be very serious,” Steve challenged, sitting up properly instead of slouching into the cushions. “Don’t change the subject. You need to talk to Peter—if he’s depressed or if there’s any problems at school-”

“I know how to talk to my own _son_ , Cap,” Tony bit out, curling the fingers of his left hand into the armrest as an awkward, boxed silence descended on the room. “It’s a few things right now—May, me, college, field trip, Spider-Man--the whole Stark Heir thing. It’s—it’s an adjustment period.” He flattened his right hand in the air, as though pressing it against a force field. “I hit a nerve earlier tonight; that’s why he’s upset.”

“Musta been a pretty big nerve, Tony,” Bruce replied, blinking at him. He threw the OFA pamphlet on the table and sat back to watch the movie—it still wasn’t all that interesting, and only Bucky looked at all invested in the screen--but whether that was just to avoid the conversation would need further testing. “Did you talk to him about your idea for the field trip?” asked Bruce.

Tony gave a firm nod, slicking back his hair with one dramatic motion. He caught a knot and tugged it through with a wince. “I did, but we were coming to the table and then he changed the subject...” Tony stood up and stretched his legs, his fingers fidgeting for something else to do, for something to keep his hands busy while his head sorted everything into neat categories.

Steve gave a huff, crossing his arms over his chest. “Well, I wonder where he gets that from.”

“Excuse me?” Tony swung around to stare at the Captain, mounting annoyance settling in his gut; he’d had it tonight. Frankly, he wanted the Avengers down to their hallways so he could go to bed, which wasn’t something he was in the habit of doing. He wasn’t even sure about staying up for Pepper at this rate. “You know what, Cap? I don’t like your tone.” Tony pulled in a breath and threw his head to the side, catching Bruce’s eye and raised brow. “I—All of you. I think you should leave. Go. I want—I want to go see my son.” The word sat on his tongue like it was meant to be there, and when he said it he thought of Peter—in an odd way, he always had; from first going to meet him, stepping into that apartment and meeting his Aunt and then, after that truly horrible date loaf he felt inclined to eat, meeting Peter.

A kid, standing there with that stupid DVD player he’d pulled out of the trash, looking as bemused as he did concerned. A kid, standing in his cramped room, who looked ready to take on the might of Iron Man to protect his secret identity— not for himself, but for those he loved. A kid, standing on the tarmac in Germany—sitting in the car—jumping off buildings—chasing down criminals—risking his damned life and getting stuck under a building and—

(They’d never talked about that. They should talk about that.)

There was a lot of time in between the next big thing—when Tony had Peter in the lab at the Compound, and they worked side by side on cars and engines and homework and he, well, he started pushing for MIT because the kid was a genius. The world needed him. Tony remembered sending him home that night, and then going up to have dinner with Pepper. “ _I thought you weren’t fond of kids_ ,” she’d said.

“ _I’m... not. Grubby, touchy little things—but this one’s my kid. He’s a genius._ ”

“ _Your kid, Tony? I think his Aunt would have something to say about that_.”

They’d laughed, but Tony had also raised his eyebrows because he’d met May and she’d _definitely_ have something to say about the comment. The next night, Tony asked the Parkers over for dinner because Pepper wanted to meet the wunderkind. When they’d left, and Tony was cleaning up, Pepper leant on to the counter with her hip and simply said, “ _He’s your kid_.”

He’d laughed. Then, all too suddenly, they were in space, with the Wizard, _Doctor_ Stephen Strange, and then—that _idiot_ almost shot Peter, and at the time Tony hadn’t reacted past the ‘you shoot my guy, I’ll blast yours’. His head had been everywhere and nowhere all at once—but then it was a misunderstanding. Then Thanos dropped a moon on his face. Then... _Mr. Stark, I don’t feel so good. I don’t want to go_. The words, Tony could still hear them; he’d almost lost Peter so many times that day—but, in his heart, he knew he wasn’t _really_ going to; his kid was too smart for that - until, suddenly, the boy was dust in his fingers and he, Tony, was just sitting there holding the air.

(They hadn’t talked about that, either.)

Then the five years. Tony searched – God, he searched. May was gone. Harley was gone—but Harley could never have replaced Peter; Harley was Harley and Peter was Peter. Everyone except Pepper and a handful of broken Avengers were gone and he was in that cabin on the lake varying his time between there and relief effect from the Tower--he'd bought it back to have a base of operations--and then Cap turned up on his doorstep. They argued. Ant-Man was there, and Ant-Man made Tony think of Germany, which made him think about Peter—Peter, who he’d never stopped thinking about, who crowded his head and made him tired.

Tony brought Peter back—well, Smart Hulk snapped his fingers—partly because of that stupid photo they’d taken, because Peter wanted to convince his classmates he had the internship at SI (apparently they still didn’t believe him, which was news to Tony, and something he should probably address before Friday). They were standing in the middle of a battlefield but there was Peter—and Tony had known Peter was somewhere, had seen a flash of him go past—and Peter was talking, talking like he always did in the lab – rambling, was probably a better word, and all Tony could think was—

 _My kid. My damn kid. My kid is safe, and here, and alive—and he won’t stop talking._ Tony needed him to shut up. They’d have time after this shit to talk (not that they had talked, that is) and right now—well, at that moment, Tony needed him to shut up. He hadn’t really thought about it, when they’d hugged, and he’d held on a little longer than he probably should have but finally his kid shut up with a last, “ _this is nice_.” It really was.

Then, they killed Thanos—or, rather, Nebula killed Thanos. It seemed sweet justice at the time. Tony had spent a time mourning, as did a few of the others, but then life had to move on. The Compound was currently destroyed, the cabin was too small and Peter was in New York anyway—and they had the Tower, so it was a no-brainer, really. After the Blip, some people were angry, others were happy, and a lot of people committed suicide. Tony understood why. When Peter came back to the lab, everything went back to some weird sense of normalcy; the Accords got knocked into shape (sorta, anyway; they'd do), and Tony tried to welcome Steve and the others back the best he could. They still had a long way to go.

Then, the accident happened. It had been a normal day, everything going as it was meant to; Peter came straight to the lab after school (although he usually clocked a couple of hours as Spider-Man beforehand. Not that day.) so May didn’t need to worry about him. He stayed, a lot of the time, for dinner—sometimes with the team, sometimes with just Tony and Pepper (and Harley, if he was visiting; although Harley often liked eating with the team instead). But that day, normal as it could get, something happened—something went wrong. FRIDAY had shown Tony the footage before the blast a dozen or more times, shown him and Peter doing something, and then her systems got knocked out and the next thing Tony knew he was waking up in a hospital bed with a grade 2 concussion.

Peter got it just as bad, but Peter healed quicker; Peter was at his side for four days until he finally woke up. Tony immediately grabbed him – broken fingers made this difficult – and checked his face, his scalp. Peter laughed, got quiet, and then he said, “Uh, Mister Stark, there’s something Doctor Banner wants to talk to you about.”

Bruce had come in, wearing full-on doctor’s scrubs and looking only slightly ridiculous, and asked Peter to leave for a minute; it was a private matter. Of course Peter left immediately, the good kid he was. Tony had gone cold—the first thing Bruce would have done was take blood and x-rays. He’d seen something – found something, and Tony prepared himself to be told he had six months to live.

Bruce stood over him, hand on his shoulder, and he said, “Peter’s your biological son, Tony.” Without waiting for Tony to speak, Bruce went on to berate him—how had he never checked Peter’s bloods? It was a fluke Bruce even found out; FRIDAY mentioned something, had analysed the bloods and said something, done something, shown the good doctor a report and on it was a DNA match. Tony asked for the paperwork, looked at the information himself. He’d always wondered about those one-night stands, but he’d also never checked up on them; he’d been sure, him being in the media, any of the women he’d slept with—if anything came of it, they’d be out for child support, for money, and he’d deal with it then. This wasn't one of those.

Obviously, he remembered Mary Fitzpatrick. They’d dated quietly for a few months until she met Richard – that was all Tony remembered about him, really; his name was Richard. On her phone, on the letters, in her diary. Richard. Tony left her immediately and kept on partying—he’d heard something a few years later—something like a Mary and a Richard dying in an airplane crash, but Tony shrugged it off as he did most things in those days; a lot of people were named Richard and Mary.

Tony didn’t look into it in his hospital bed, but he might have later. But immediately he asked for Bruce to get Peter, and he told Peter because the kid deserved to know and to see the conclusive results of the test now—not later, not when Tony had had a chance to process it either. Of course the kid ran home to his Aunt. Of course she’d come down to see the test results herself. Of course she’d stood there a moment too long, looking from her phone to Tony Stark, and back again, and then nodded and left.

It went quiet for a while, but then Peter came back. They chatted, and they did science and engineering and all the good things they always did. May turned up the day after, forfeiting a day’s wages so she could have help going over and correcting her Will. Tony hadn’t understood, until later when she went tired and cold, why she was so adamant they do it then and there, that Tony write a letter to confirm it so her nephew would be safe if anything happened to her.

 _When_ something happened to her. She collapsed and died suddenly in the hospital hallways a couple of weeks later. Tony knew about her Will, about everything she had planned; was it selfish? He wasn’t about to judge it. He just bought the tickets for himself, Happy and Peter as soon as he heard. The kid was a mess when he arrived later after school and just wanted to go through the Will and have it done. Tony didn’t blame him. They went through it, the kid was crushed, the paperwork was signed and all Tony could see was his kid – his actual kid – sitting in that chair, expressionless, as his life was decided for him by adults.

He’d taken Peter out of there as soon as he could, to a room on his and Pepper’s floor. The kid slept and slept and slept. They went to Italy, and Peter slept there, too. He put flowers on May’s grave and then walked away. Tony could see it in him; he was angry, he was upset, he was everything in between those emotions and something very beyond them, too.

A few days after, Tony said it feeling brave, used ‘dad’ as a glossing for something. It probably shouldn’t have been a push at college—it shouldn’t have been at breakfast with the team (who all knew about Peter and Tony, because Tony hadn’t wanted it to be one of those ‘to tell them or not to, to let them find out’ stupidities), and shouldn’t have been accompanied with a sharp tone. It shouldn’t have been the same tone he used for the rooftop when he’d taken the damn suit and it shouldn’t have gone like:

Tony: “Of course you’re going to college, Peter.”  
Peter: “Well, maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll just—Maybe I’ll just stay here, in the Tower, and learn from you.”  
Tony: “No, you’re definitely going to college.”  
Peter: “Well, maybe I don’t want-”  
Tony: “No, Pete. You’re going to college.”  
Peter: “Why-”  
Tony: “Because I’m your dad and I said you’re going to college!”

Peter grabbed his bag and got his ass to school immediately, without a goodbye. The team had been cold to Tony since the exchange, but they'd been nice to Peter – open to him, talking to him, and Tony couldn’t blame them. He didn’t blame them. He didn’t even blame Peter for maybe not wanting to immediately go to college; the past year had been more than a little rough after all.

Tony waited up for him that night when he didn’t come home. He asked FRIDAY to track Karen, too, but she was offline. He waited, because he didn’t want to intrude on Peter—his son—his kid. He’d fallen in love with using the words right away; they just felt right. But, obviously, Peter didn’t see him and his words (father, dad - _Tony_ ) in the same light. Tony was happy to wait. Just like he’d done that night, waiting, until FRIDAY told him Peter was in the elevator, when he’d gotten up and gone to stand there, to wait—he hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol in six years. He hadn’t that night, either, but it was probably the nearest he'd gotten in a long time.

Tony wasn’t the one who reached for the hug but he accepted it, of course, and ruffled his kid’s hair. Asked if Peter had had fun Spider-Manning, and if they could talk.

He hadn’t been Spider-Manning, hadn’t since then, either, but said they could talk—so they talked. They had a little cocoa and they talked. It was pleasant. At the end of it, as Tony walked Peter to his bedroom, he said, “ _You don’t have to call me dad, kid. Nothing has to change between us—just let me help you, OK?_ ”

Of course everything changed—the ‘dad’ thing was probably the biggest thing which didn’t.

“Tony?”

Tony jumped out of his extended reverie and turned his head towards Bruce. “Uh-”

“Are you OK, man? You’ve been standing there for like ten minutes staring at the sofa.” Bruce placed a hand carefully on his friend’s shoulder. “Maybe you should head to bed, too.”

Tony blinked a couple of times and searched the room—but it was empty apart from them. No one else was there; Cap was gone, Natasha was gone—Clint, and Bucky - gone. “Where did everyone go? I completely blacked out there, got into my head...”

“You told them to leave and said you were going to check on Peter, but you got to here and just stopped. I stayed behind, made myself some coffee and came back to see you were still just standing here.” Bruce sipped said coffee. “Got me worried, Tony.”

Tony placed a hand to his head. “Don’t be. I’m fine—as I said, I got in my head and... God, I’m just worried about Peter—this stupid field trip is coming at a bad time.” He rubbed his temples. FRIDAY politely dipped the lights without being asked. “I want to use this as a chance to promote our internships, but – I think I’ve gotta back off and just let Peter get through it.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “You’re becoming very responsible, Tony,” he remarked, a kindness filtering through his tone. “Maybe we can have a play with the field trip, and make it run in his and our favour. I’ll talk to the team; they’re downstairs watching a movie.” Bruce patted him once and went to leave.

Tony caught his sleeve. “Tell them I’m sorry. I’m—I’m just as much of a mess as Peter is right now.”

Smiling nicely at him, the good doctor tipped his head. “Won’t mean much coming from me, Tony, but we’ll figure this out—everything. Go and see Peter—Oh, di-did you get the message from Strange?”

Tony stared at him blankly, and then it hit him. “Shit. He’s here this weekend.” He groaned deeply and shook his head, turning to the hallway. “Night, Bruce.” (“Night, Tony!”) Shoving his hands into his pockets, Tony walked quickly down the hallway and stood outside Peter’s door, fist up to knock. There was light gushing out from under the door itself, so he gathered the kid was probably doing his homework to relax and calm down after a tiring day. For a second, Tony thought perhaps he should leave him be, give him space—but he wanted... Well, did it sound silly to say Tony ‘Iron Man’ Stark wanted a hug?

He knocked. “Pete? Can I come in?” A wordless hum was his answer and Tony turned the doorknob, stepping into the warm bedroom. “Hey, kid. Homework good?”

Peter didn’t respond in words from where he sat at his worktable, but turned into the room. He chucked his pencil, habitably chewed despite Tony's instructions to FRIDAY to not let him do it, on the desk with all the force he could muster when he was obviously tired and emotionally wrought out of shape. As Tony got closer, he noticed his kid’s eyes were red-rimmed, and his face was streaked. “Pete? Pete, what’s wrong?” He let the concern flood his tone, crouching down to take Peter’s hands in his, to squeeze them. “Kid?” Tony searched his head for answers to this – to why; dates, days, moments, his own stupidity. _Is he hurt? Did he not tell me?_ But, then again, with the way Tony had behaved recently, why would Peter tell him anything?

Suddenly, Peter flung himself forward into Tony’s arms and started sniffling into his shoulder. Tony was taken aback for two seconds before he wrapped him in a hug and stood up, holding him dear and carefully—his bones, since the bite, were so light Tony could almost think he wasn’t even picking up a boy, no less a teenager. “Pete? Look, kid, you’re gonna have to use your words.” He tried rubbing Peter’s back, just a little, unsure.

When Peter still didn’t respond, Tony walked over and dropped him on the bed before moving away to check his desk—his homework was done, although messier than normal, almost scribbled. The other thing he noticed was his phone was broken, and not just the screen—but the entire thing was _smashed_. Tony’s eyebrows shot up. Even retrieving the SIM card with that amount of damage would be difficult. “Pete, what the Hell happened?” Tony turned to see the boy was curled up on his covers, trying to kick off his shoes.

Tony, despite his reservations about the shoes and where they walked on the daily, carefully untied and removed them, dropping them at the end of Peter’s bed. “C’mon, kid, you’re gonna have to tell me what’s wrong, or I can’t help you. I wanna help you, OK?”

Peter was sniffling, but not outright crying. He lay there, on his bedspread, finally sitting to attention when Tony lowered himself down next to him, crossing one ankle over his thigh to sit easier with a hand to Peter’s forehead. “I’m fine, I—it’s...” Peter knocked Tony’s hand away and put his head into his palms, rubbing his eyes. “It’s stupid—it’s just... Ned’s away, so he’s not going on the field trip, and now...”

“Yeah?” Tony asked, tilting his head to the left. _Damn. I like that Ned kid. I need to make sure SI gets him for our IT department_.

“MJ’s ill, so... So she won’t be there either.” Peter looked up, eyes red. “So, now it’s just—well. That field trip. It’s gonna be so much worse than I thought, because now it’ll be me, and a bunch of the others, and—and this kid, uh, Eugene. He—well, we don’t get on.”

Tony nodded. “Ah.” How were you meant to respond in this situation? God, he didn’t know. “MJ’s... She’s your girlfriend – I remember. Lordy. Jeez, kid, I’m sorry.” Tony rubbed his neck. “Look, we’re gonna do something about this field trip, OK? Everything’ll be fine—but, Pete, look at me.”

Peter, like the angel he is, looked up at Tony; there was a lot of tiredness in those large eyes. He needed to sleep this off—Tony needed to, as well. “This Eugene kid,” said Tony. “He’s not... He’s not bothering you – like a bully – is he?”

Peter took too long to respond. “No. He’s not.”

 _Well, that’s not any good_. “Kid,” said Tony, quietly, reaching over to ruffle his hair. “I’m gonna believe you until you tell me differently.” He put his knees on the bed and brought Peter into a hug; no matter what, his kid could never resist a hug. Nowadays, it honestly made Tony damn happy. “When you decide to, I’ll be here, OK? Now, go on, go to sleep and I’ll see you in the morning.” Tony backed off and made for the doorway, letting the kid get his own lights (well, FRIDAY did that for him actually, but it was the thought that counts). “Sleep well, Pete.”

Just as he shut the door, Tony heard the unmistakable sound of Peter’s voice, small and quiet in the exhaustion, say, “Night, Tony.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well-
> 
> I don't know how or why this monster of a chapter happened, but it did. I've written approx. 9k words today on about four cups of tea and my fingers are absolutely freezing lmao  
> This chapter is quite set up-ish and more about exploring the relationship between Peter and Tony; I thought it should happen earlier on, so to give it more time for development between them. Next chap. should be out... Wednesday? Let's try Wednesday.  
> I hope you enjoyed! ~~I can't eat sugar, so comments are like my candy lol~~


	3. Stark Differences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Harley Keener would be a better son to the famous and infamous Tony Stark than Peter Parker could ever be. He, at least, called him ‘ _Tony_ ’. Peter couldn’t even do that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _*Drops this in front of you and barks*_
> 
> Notes;  
> 1\. FanFics are an escape for some people, so that's why I'd like to warn you **there is a anxiety attack written in this chapter**. It takes up a fair chunk and is plot-relevant.  
> While it is important for Peter's character arc and I strongly encourage you to read it, I am also aware it could be triggering and if you'd rather skim-read it, or skip it now and read it later, then I have bolded where I believe it starts and ends. Stay safe !  
> 2\. edited; ~~30/03/2020~~ 11/04/2020
> 
> The awesome [InformalFallacy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InformalFallacy/pseuds/InformalFallacy) has very politely made a TVTropes page for Open For All ! [Click Here!](https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Fanfic/OpenForAll) to go to it :)

Peter didn’t usually sleep late, or hate Tuesdays. Both were valid when he woke up to FRIDAY steadily increasing his alarm.

Peter shoved the duvet back and waved his arm about, asking her to silence the incessant, dotty blaring. “FRIDAY,” he called to the AI, yawning gawkily. His eyes slid open, staring at the ceiling; somehow during the night he’d twisted his whole body around and was lying sideways in an awkward arch; _awh, my neck—_. “Curtains, please—what time is it?”

“Good morning, Mister Parker,” said FRIDAY as sweetly as she knew how to be, her Irish lilt dripping with false kindness. Peter blushed at realising he’d spoken a little out of turn to her; Mr. Stark had once or twice mentioned how she liked to be afforded certain humanistic graces, as she’d been programmed sympathetically and with an almost mother-like fondness. Usually, Peter would have been nicer; but just lately he knew he’d gotten snappier with her, and she with him.

As the curtains drew back to his right, a musty sunlight cascaded on to his dark carpet and immediately gave the bedroom the homeliness of a summer’s leisurely morning. Peter knew he couldn’t waste another minute in bed under the soft covers with his synthetic blanket surrounding him in all the warmth he could ever want or need. “Currently, the time is six-o-five,” came FRIDAY’s voice, cutting through the quiet of his room.

Peter blinked and sat up, hearing his neck crack in the process. He ruffled a hand through his hair; it was mussed from sleep and sticking out at all angles, with a couple of knots he’d been slaphappy about combing out lately. Flattening his mop best he could, Peter thought blissfully of the shower he’d have time for. “Really, FRIDAY? Why am I up so early?”

“Because you went to bed early,” FRIDAY replied in a voice which sounded forgiving, but also like she was reading off a script badly. Peter suspected his Karen’s programming came directly from FRIDAY’s, with more punch and sass thrown in to keep him focused on something besides his anxiety; someone there who he could talk to and joke with and who’d act like commentary during the more mundane moments. Although he loved that about his personal AI, FRIDAY had the sensibilities and firm hand of Pepper, which was definitely what was needed when Mr. Stark was involved.

“Oh, yeah, I remember,” Peter replied, using the back of his hand to absorb another yawn. “I had the call with MJ and... damaged my phone, and then Mr. Stark put me to bed.”

“Actually, Peter, I think you’ll find you ‘totalled’ your phone, as I’ve heard you say in regards to breaking things beyond repair.”

Peter blushed furiously. “Is Mr. Stark mad?”

“I don’t think so, Peter,” FRIDAY replied, the kindness sticking to her programmed accent. “He is worried about you, as far as I can deduct from analysing his facial expressions and matching them to my database.” A moment later she added, “Would you like to see the collected evidence to support this?”

“Uh, thank you but no, FRIDAY. I—I’m good,” Peter replied with a quiet chuckle beneath his breath, trying in vain to get the heat in his face under control. A shower would do it. He shrugged out of the covers, realising with sudden shame he hadn’t gotten into his pyjamas last night; somehow he’d managed to work his jeans off, which were tangled up in the covers. Wincing, he reached in and pulled them out, laying the material out flat on his bed to straighten out the wrinkles for the day—he had three other pairs in his drawers, two of which were brand new and hadn’t been worn-in yet; a task in itself. Bothering with an awkward saunter today wouldn’t work. Nope.

Peter discarded his attempts and used his en-suite bathroom, hopping into the shower and then throwing himself out of it when it turned cold on his skin. He impatiently waited, towel wrapped around his waist to protect his modestly, testing the water every few seconds as soap suds lazily trailed down from his hair. Finally getting washed up, Peter threw on some clothes he hadn’t worn in a while (and the slept-in, kicked-off jeans) and went to grab his phone before he remembered his... It hadn’t been a _tantrum_ as such, more a _‘my-friends-have-abandoned-me-and-I’m-going-to-take-it-out-on-an-inanimate-object’_ outburst. Yeah. _That covers a multitude of sins_ , thought Peter, surveying his desk but finding the pieces of his late phone were gone.

He suspected Mr. Stark had taken them last night, though Peter didn’t think there was any point trying to fix it. Hopefully the SIM made it, but it wasn’t the end of the world. Peter nearly broke into laughter at the ironic phrasing—he’d witnessed something similar to the end of the world, and whereas he might have once thought breaking his phone would have been _a something_ , he shortly realised it was just that: a broken phone, with maybe a couple of photos he hadn’t bothered saving but he doubted any of them were of any real importance.

He thought back to his latest snaps, trying to place them—one was the police horses he saw the other day, another the graffiti over that signpost, and about half a dozen selfies. Nothing important, except one, he recalled, was a secret recording he’d taken of Mr. Stark trying to find his screwdriver (which Peter had swiped). He only wanted it because Mr. Stark was in the habit of searching and calling for his equipment like a regular human would call for their dog (“Screwdriver? Hey, screwdriver? Who’s a good screwdriver? Where the Hell are you? Pete, have you seen the screwdriver? Dammit. Eh, screw you, screwdriver; I’ll get the pliers.”), and Peter thought it would make great blackmail material.

Well. Never mind.

Peter fussed with his laces and then left the room, slinking back his wet hair into something resembling reasonable as he made his way down the hallway and toward the open-plan living area of the Stark residence in the Tower. Two floors below them (because Mr. Stark thought it was a privacy violation for anyone to have to sleep with another bedroom over them) were the Official Avengers’ Hallways, and unlike the penthouse they were a task to navigate even when you knew where you were going. It was almost like, in the recent redesign to accommodate the growing array of Avengers, Mr. Stark had tried to make it as uncomfortable as was possible for them to live in the Tower for any amount of time. Not that that was an issue, as most of the time the Team was upstate.

New York City was marked in Peter's heart as _home_ , but in actuality he had found himself preferring the Compound upstate to the Tower in recent months (or at least the idea of it) and he couldn’t wait to spend his first full summer up there training in the revamped home of The Avengers. He’d seen it in photo and video form once or twice since the endgame, but hadn’t been there himself since January when Mr. Stark had moved the contractors in to finish up, as he’d gotten busy with school. Most of it, Dr. Banner told him, was pretty much done; just a few odds and ends, some piping, an issue with the plumbing which had flooded out an unimportant storage unit and now required a couple extra thousand bucks to fix to regulation standard; which meant a couple thousand more on top of that from Mr Stark’s point of view, to make it _good_.

With Spider-Man now ranked as an Official Avenger, Peter did feel he had a duty to sharpen up his skills and, even if he had a million other things to do, he wanted summer just for that. Just for Spider-Man. Get the stupid field trip out of the way, the last of his exams, and then he’d get a chance to get up there and spend his time in the gym, in the grounds, the pool—it would be great. Of course, he’d pop back to New York a couple of times to see Ned, see MJ, save a cat, help an old lady cross the street, eat a churro. Which reminded him: he needed to get out as Spider-Man at some point soon and help foil a crime with the police present so he could hand over summer responsibility to them.

He was hoping to drag MJ up to the Compound, too, for a few days at least, though Peter was fine with a short-term long-distance relationship for a bit. After all, she was planning for uni in the fall anyway, and as far as he could gather she was trying for Penn State—which she’d get into fine—so, the summer would be good for them; a chance to see if their relationship could withstand not seeing one another at school every day. They’d get through it.

Just like Peter would get through breakfast with enough time to have Happy drop him a block from Midtown, and for him to sprint the rest of the way to school without breaking a sweat. Peter pursed his lips into an easy smile and carried on into the sitting room, coming to a short pause when, from the corner of his eye, he saw a couple of battered backpacks tossed against the side of the sofa; one lay awkwardly on its side, bulging, the zip only just holding. The other bag was sitting up, open, a Stark-(lap)top poking out. On the corner, a sticker of a flag – red field, blue strip on the fly, and an emblem in the centre made up of a blue circle with three white stars inside – had been stuck haphazardly, unattached at one corner and smoothed out before being stuck down again, causing it to wrinkle.

Peter raised his eyebrows and turned his head to the kitchen. Just like his bags, _he_ was unmistakable.

Sitting at the kitchen table with his back to Peter, languidly sprawled across a chair, was the one and only Harley Keener.

Peter couldn’t keep the smirk off his face. “Look what the bobcat dragged in,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. He kicked up his heels and jogged into the kitchen, causing the current conversation to trail off and the other teen to coil around in the chair, a smile playing on his lips. “Harley!” Peter stopped at his side and gave a harsh tug to his shoulder, ordering him up. “What the Hell, man? When did you arrive? Aren’t you meant to be in Massachusetts?”

“My exams got pushed back – so we get an extra week off! Thought I’d come to New York and spend it here,” Harley replied, setting down his steaming cup to draw Peter into a hug. When they pulled apart, Harley ruffled a working hand through Peter’s damp hair, pushing it boldly away from his forehead. “Jeez, you either need a hair band or a haircut. How’re you, Peter?”

“I-I’m good – just, wow! Harley, I didn’t expect to see you until the summer.” Peter smoothed his hair back into shape, curls already beginning to dry. “How-how are you? How’s your sister? Your mother? Uh, school? How’s school?” Peter lowered himself into his chair as Harley retook his seat and grasped his painted cup to drain a quarter of the black coffee. Much like Mr. Stark’s hands, Harley’s hands were worn and worked despite his seventeen years. He had at least one plaster on each finger, and a nasty burn seared over the width of his wrist.

Harley’s body was wirier than Peter’s, with a slicker finish; but on looking closer the two shared a lot of similarities. They were about matching height. The line of their jaw, though here Harley’s face was rounder, had the same jutting to it. Their eyes were marked up in the same way, coloured gentle but with that sharp, bordering manic intelligence. Hair, though an artificial resemblance on the face of it, they tended to keep the same way: Harley’s was wavy, whereas Peter’s curly. Both of them usually kept it away from their eyes – in fact, from their face in general, preferring to keep open, clean expressions to the world.

It had been remarked on in the past they could be brothers. After the fiasco with Peter, Mr. Stark had actually decided it was a good idea to check – _just to be sure_. It came back a negative match which, oddly, none of the involved parties knew how to react to in either words or feelings. Peter wasn’t sure he’d admit it aloud, but the thought of having a half-brother he was biologically-related to... It had been a surreal few hours as they waited in the lab, opposite ends and working on their own projects. He’d taken long, sweeping stares of Harley’s profile. It hadn’t been impossible, and no one would deny Harley – with his appearance, his personality, and his brains – was absolutely capable of being Mr. Stark’s son, too.

Peter remembered the few minutes he’d spent sinking into a depression on his realisation that Harley Keener would be a better son to the famous and infamous Tony Stark than Peter Parker could ever be. He, at least, called him ‘ _Tony_ ’. Peter couldn’t even do that.

With no clue as to how Peter’s thoughts had spiralled, Harley scratched his face and replied, “I’m doing OK. Lindsey’s doing fine, too, ‘far as I know. Mum’s...” He trailed off, flicking his eyes to Mr. Stark at the stove, before he looked back at Peter. “MIT’s great. Intense, though. I’m sure it’ll be even better when you’re there!”

Peter flinched, bringing his palms together on the table. A silence, shattered by the coffee machine, stretched thin across the kitchen as Harley looked from Peter to Mr. Stark, until the latter brought a cup to the table – coffee, with milk – and set it down in front of Peter. “I think you’ll have to wait a while, Harley,” said Mr. Stark, his hand dropping on to Peter’s shoulder, squeezing it. “We aren’t thinking of college in the fall, are we, Pete?”

“Uh, Mr. Stark, well-” Peter tried, but found he left his mouth gaping, trying to bring words to the surface when there weren’t words to say—words he could think to say. A part of him, small but there, knew what he wanted – what he _should_ say – but it wouldn’t come.

“Really? Awh. OK.” Harley raised an eyebrow, settling back in his chair. He stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankles, fidgeting with the handle of his mug. “Damn. Well, guess I should stop telling people there’ll be another Stark in MIT in the fall, huh?” He dropped his head back, shrugging his shoulders in a sigh.

Peter remained silent. Mr. Stark, who’d returned to the stove, dropped the wooden spoon he’d been using and splattered the floor with waffle mixture.

Harley brought his head up at the sound and looked between them both. A chill had settled over the warm kitchen, and another silence, with words unspoken and conversations not broached. **It definitely wasn’t the time for them** , on a busy morning before school, when Peter needed to get his bag, and collect the packet off the table, and check with Mr. Sta—Pepper. Check with Pepper about the badge situation. Oh, Hell, he could fill it out anyway—he had an extra passport photo in his room, in the drawer—he should get that—

“Pete-” Mr. Stark began, but Peter was already on his feet and muttering excuses even he couldn’t decipher. He was walking away from the coffee – away from Harley (“Peter? Where ya goin’?”) calling him, and Mr. Stark calling him (“Pete? Kid?”) – he was jogging before he realised it, at his room a second or so later, opening and closing the door, turning to lock it before he remembered he didn’t have a lock on this door.

Instead, he put his weight against it and slid down to sit on the floor, raising his hands to block out the intensity around him. “FRIDAY,” Peter managed in between long, heavy breaths. “Tur-turn down the lights – _please_.”

She did. Then, “Peter, I think you might be having a mild anxiety attack. Would you like me to call Boss?”

“No. No, no, no.” Peter swallowed, dropping his head back against the solid wood of his door. “No.” He thumped the heel of his hand against his forehead and cursed beneath his breath, swallowing down the spit pooling in his mouth to take in lungful after lungful of air. Around him, the room was closing in—collapsing around him—pressing down—the dark—and the _building_ — “ _Help me_ ,” he choked.

“Peter, you are in distress.”

“FRIDAY—the—the—building—is it—is the building-” Peter gasped in another breath and lurched forwards, feeling as if weights were pushing him down, pressing him into the floor and he _couldn’t get out, oh, God, help me get out_. “Is it collapsing? Is—is the Tower—FRIDAY-”

“The structural integrity of the Tower is fine, Peter. You are currently experiencing a panic attack, and the possibility you will hurt yourself is high. I am initiating protocol 76209: Light in the Darkness, and am summoning Mr. Stark accordingly, as he is your primary caregiver. One moment, please.”

Peter rolled on to his back as the lights around him started coming up, swamping the room in vast, painful arrays of brightness. He shielded his eyes with a shaking arm, pressing his head back into the carpet as he felt the floor begin to bounce beneath him, sending pinpricks of panic and pain through his ever nerve—and then the door was opening, and he curled up on his side at the trace of a whine from the hinges, pressing straight into his ears and down into his nerves like a burst of fire.

“Peter?” A hand – rough, worked, worn – touched his shoulder, and another settled on his side. He was turning, despite his attempts to curl up even further, kicking slowly and without any weight behind it, and then he was being wrapped up in a hug, life-assuring and enveloping. Immediately, the pressure surrounding him had Peter finding a grounding, something to cling to, to hold on to, moulding his body to shape around Mr. Stark’s in a feral attempt to be close—to be so close—because he needed the closeness. The touch. The pressure of worn, safe hands holding him as a father would. One settled under his shoulders, another over his chest, and all Peter could hear suddenly was, “Kid. Kid, you’re safe. You’re not trapped under anything. You’re in the light – in the Tower. You’re here with me – kid. C’mon, buddy, breathe with me – in, n’ out, that’s it. C’mon, Pete, we’re through this. We’re through this—kid.”

 _God, I’m meant to be seventeen_ , thought Peter in between gasps into Mr. Stark’s shirt, tightening his fingers in the fabric instinctively. Footsteps trailed towards them and Peter, through his breathing, could hear talking—Harley—and then Mr. Stark’s rumbling voice was purring from his chest, and then Harley was walking away quickly, toward the staircase.

Mr. Stark’s hand brushed through his hair, and he continued shushing as Peter managed to stop his track-trail tears, somehow getting his sniffling mostly under control as a warm hand smoothed up and down his back in gentle strokes. The silence arched around them, as Peter realised with a sickening twist of his gut he was back to _this_. The exhaustion, the pressure in his chest—the domino effect which had led him into barely being able to comprehend life’s little idiocies. He tensed and un-tensed his fingers in Mr. Stark’s shirt like a cat, concentrating on the wisps of **air blowing against his ear**.

“There we go kiddo. You’re through it. We’re through it.” Mr. Stark’s hand stilled on Peter’s back, settling pressure against his spine. “Oh, God, Pete—I’m so sorry. Har-Harley didn’t know.”

“It-it’s OK, Mr. Stark. I’m sorry,” Peter replied with a lapse of breath. “I—I don’t know why it even happened.”

A silence settled around them, Peter matching Mr. Stark’s breathing, sitting on the carpet of his room – _his room_ in the Tower; his _home_. He drew in a shaking breath, the smell of machine oil, rust and waffle-mixture sticking to his nostrils. He was sitting in _his room_ , in _his home_ , safe and sound with his—

With Mr. Stark. _Tony_.

“I do,” Mr. Stark replied, pulling them apart. He combed Peter’s hair back, looking straight into his eyes. Though he was obviously trying very hard to be serious, the older man was smiling. “We’re... gonna have to have a chat about that, kid—not because I want, or need, you to do something about – about being a _Parker_ ; because that’s part of who you are, and I’m never going to make you change that – but because you can’t be feeling like this. It’s not fair on you.” Mr. Stark used a knee to push himself up, stretching out his legs. “When all this...” He gestured weakly, indicating _everything_ ; the universe itself. “Is yours, Pete, I don’t care if you wanna rename the company to _Parker Industries_. But the fact is when...—I’ve spent a lot of my life, trying to take care of everything I love, to protect what I can’t live without—but, Peter, I won’t be able to do that sometimes, and eventually the media is gonna – well, they’re gonna know about _you_ , and _me_ , and the fact that after Pepper retires this company is going to my son.”

Peter swallowed around the lump in his throat, his stomach dropping open like a wide pit to Hell. His shoulders fell under the weight of responsibility he felt suddenly burdened with.

Mr. Stark pointed at Peter. “That’s you.” He dropped his arms, his hands slapping against his oil-dirty jeans. Taking a few steps back, Mr. Stark leant against Peter’s desk, turning his eyes down to look at the neatly-piled, stapled homework papers. “There’s only so long we can keep this under wraps, kid. Every day is golden, y’know? And when they find out...” Mr. Stark turned his face around to stare at Peter, purse-lipped. “Well, it’ll be like a non-OFA field trip for ‘em. There’ll be questions, and they’ll be saying a lot worse than the boo-boo Harley made.” Rubbing his eyes, Mr. Stark changed topic, “D’you finish your homework?”

Peter took in a deep breath and hopped on to his feet, using the easy strength in his legs to propel him up. “Uh, yeah, Mr. Stark. I finished it last night—it’s gotta be in today.”

“OK, great. I’ll have Hap pop that over there, along with a – doctor’s note-” Mr. Stark gestured over to the doorway and Peter turned on his toe, jolting back at seeing Dr. Banner standing there, anxiously rubbing his large palms together. Peter turned back to Mr. Stark, incredulous, still speaking, “-and you’ll spend the day in the lab with me and Harley—not even Harley, if you want. It can just be us.”

“Uh, no, that—that’s fine, Mr. Stark, but? Uh, Dr. Banner isn’t listed as my doctor and, since... Germany, they’ve been a bit weird about me randomly getting pulled out of school,” said Peter, looking down at his shoes when Mr. Stark’s eyes surveyed over him.

A hand steadied on Peter’s shoulder. “Look, kid. Bruce is practically a bigger celebrity than _I am_. D’you know how much his autograph goes for on the internet?” Mr. Stark leant down and close, trying to catch Peter’s eyes. “Do you? Huh? Huh?”

“No, uh, Mr. Stark, I-”

“Bruce, tell Peter how much your autograph goes for on the internet.”

“Tony, I—I don’t know?” Dr. Banner remained where he was standing, shifting from one foot to the other. “Peop—people buy my autograph?”

Mr. Stark whistled. “Right; that's a conversation. Anyway! The point is, Peter, I think any STEM school around here who receives a piece of notepaper with a hand-written note from Dr. Bruce Banner excusing a student from their studies for the day is probably not gonna turn their nose up at it—they’ll probably frame it.” His other hand took Peter’s shoulder, giving it a downward patting. “And what about Germany? You had a perfectly legitimate reason—you had to see family which, at the time, y’know, there might have been a divorce going on but we got through it and, I think, you could say that’s-that’s partly because of you.”

Peter smoothed a hand over the embarrassed blush on his cheeks. “Wha-what?”

Mr. Stark threw a glance at Dr. Banner, who fumbled a few moments before departing quickly down the hallway, leaving them alone. Settling into his hips, Mr. Stark took the hand Peter had on his face and held it securely. “What I’m saying, Pete, is a lot of people – a lot of weird idiots with freaky superpowers – love you very, very much and hate seeing you like this.” Mr. Stark squeezed his hand, rubbing his thumb over Peter’s fingers. “This isn’t our Spider-Kid – do you get what I’m saying?”

Peter wasn’t sure if Mr. Stark could hear his heart – beating impossibly loud in his own ears, synced together with the other beating heart in the room; the small pocket of light under Mr. Stark’s tee-shirt hummed along with them. “I... I understand, Mr. Stark.” The glow of the older man’s eyes was dimmer, a quiet presence in a world filled with noises and distractions, but no less swarmed with the same care and adoration in every stare he’d given Peter lately. For some reason, it made the teenager more sad—so sad he couldn’t find the will in himself to give—to give _Tony_ a little piece of that... love. The idea of it, of the emotion, filled him with a burst of terror.

You see, Peter had learnt long ago he wasn’t meant to be _loved_. People who loved him got hurt, or bored of him, or died, or a combination of the three. It wasn’t that he thought he was incapable of being loved, or didn’t deserve it, but it was just the shitty situations he’d lived through which had done a good job of convincing him he wasn’t _meant to be_ , not that he couldn’t.  
He could love someone – like MJ and Ned, for example – but Peter could never quite abstain from that little ghost of a feeling that they’d eventually find someone else, someone better, someone who wasn’t Peter Parker. Maybe they’d stick around for Spider-Man, but Peter Parker? That kid had been pushed down, shoved, stepped on, kicked—and people got bored of someone like that. If someone wasn’t going to protect themself who was to say, in a moment of calamity, they were going to protect someone else? Tragedy was an old friend to Peter, with a hand always on his shoulder, ready to introduce him to another problem he’d get stuck under.

Peter sucked his bottom lip between his teeth. “Thanks, Mr. Stark—Has Pepper signed the permission slip by the way? She’s usually the best at forging May’s signature.”

Mr. Stark smiled at him and ruffled a hand through his hair. “I’ll check.” He grabbed up Peter’s homework, glancing through it quickly to speed-check, snorting. “Practically kindergarten to you, kid—how often do you correct the _questions?_ ”

“They’re usually OK,” Peter told him, though he couldn’t stop the thrill of happiness shooting through him at the cloaked praise. “They-they just use the wrong measuring units sometimes – that question only makes sense in kilograms, and they were using milligrams...”

Letting out a long breath, puffing up his mouth as he did, Mr. Stark put the papers back into order and started out the door without another word to Peter, striding purposefully down to the living quarters. Peter, though he knew he should follow, paused in his room a moment and took a seat on the edge of his bed, smoothing out the rumpled covers beneath his fingers. He listened hard as Mr. Stark spoke cleanly to Dr. Banner, asking about the note and then, bringing Peter’s embarrassed blush back to the surface, telling him about the stupid question Peter had corrected.

Dr. Banner sounded as impressed as he got, the grating of his pen pausing over paper to check the calculations and the formula. A few seconds of silence followed, and Peter stretched his senses to catch Dr. Banner’s whistle and, “ _He’s right, Tony. I-I know it’s only a test paper, but—the kid’s a damn genius_.”

“ _Of course he is_ ,” came Mr. Stark’s breath-driven response, pawing through paperwork – the packet. “ _He’s my son, Bruce. Of course he’s a genius_.”

Peter shut his senses after that and let himself fall back on to his bed, shutting his eyes and letting out a breath he’d been choking on for the last eight months.

###### 

“Thanks for dropping me off, Happy,” said Peter, grabbing his bag from the adjacent seat. He stepped out and on to the sidewalk, checking the time on his smartwatch; it automatically connected to the new phone Mr. Stark had given him yesterday, with the patented _Avengers Alarm_ specially programmed in at a frequency he could detect if there was an emergency—it meant he no longer had to wrangle his phone from an awkward butt-pocket in the middle of something like school.

“No problem, kid.” Happy leant out of the downed window. The residents of Forest Hills had grown used to seeing the snazzy black _Audi_ pull up around the area almost every day, pausing only to let a teenager out before dashing off back towards Manhattan. “Hey. Don’t let anyone bother you about yesterday, all right? I made as little a scene as I possibly could when I dropped your homework off, but there were definitely a few kids who recognised me.”

“Oh, God,” muttered Peter, tightening his hold on the straps of his backpack. “What did you do, Happy?” How could anyone _not_ recognise Happy Hogan? At this point, Peter was just praying he hadn’t begun telling everyone they should be wearing their student IDs—unless that was exactly what he’d done, which wasn’t as far-fetched as Peter would like to believe.

Happy waved him off. “Relax. They said something about Tony Stark’s bodyguard, and they took some of those selfie things with the car—I made them delete those.” He set Peter with a frown. “All I’m saying is, Peter, truth will out on Friday; if they still don’t believe the internship then, then they’re dumb as shit or jealous.”

“Ah, thanks?” Peter replied, as his watch let out a _ding_ , telling him he had twenty-five minutes until school officially started. He fancied getting there a little earlier though, in case there was any awkwardness resulting from yesterday—even more so now after chatting with Happy. “I gotta go, Happy. Uh, I’m thinking of taking the express back today, if that’s all right.”

Happy stared at him, slowly lifting his left eyebrow. He downed his sunglasses and gave him a _look_. “Yeah, no. Not gonna happen; sorry kid – Tony's orders. Seeya, Peter.” Happy put his foot down and the _Audi_ sped off with a whine from the tyres.

Peter let out a loose sigh and turned to walk the block to school. Usually he’d jog it, sprint it in bad weather, but the sun was bearing down on him today and he couldn’t shake the breathlessness from his lungs as he got nearer. The thought ‘ _he had no clue what he was walking into_ ’ struck him when he reached the corner and saw his schoolmates emerging from beat-up cars and doing whatever their social-standing permitted up the stairs; a run, a couple jumps, a slow saunter.

Even on missions he had an idea of what they were going into; there was always some intel, or someone had gone ahead and searched the area, or the bad guys themselves were broadcasting their plans with over-hyped ambition. Here, about to take his dash up the stairs, there was only him: Peter Parker, and he had no clue if today would suck worse or less than Monday (probably, _definitely_ worse).

Stepping into the hallway, going off to find his locker, Peter tried to tell himself _be calm, be calm; no one suspects a thing. You were just a little under the weather yesterday – fell ill at your internship which NO ONE believes you have and, oh yeah, Mr. Happy Hogan – Mr. Tony Stark’s bodyguard, head of security, whatever – came in, delivered your homework, OFA bullshit and a hand-written note from Hulkified Dr. Bruce Banner._ Peter slammed his locker closed a little too forcefully, startling a couple of nearby students who looked curiously in his direction before taking their leave to class. _I’m screwed_.

“Mister Peter Parker!”

 _Doubly screwed_.

Peter turned at the sound of quickened footsteps and came face-to-face with Mr. Harrington. He looked his old self; oblong-shaped glasses, piss-yellow jacket, buttoned-up so tight it was a wonder he could breathe. His hair looked a little messier than usual, probably from the stress of the upcoming field trip.

If Peter had learnt anything from Natasha’s expression-reading lectures, Mr. Roger Harrington was also very, _very_ annoyed--but he was always annoyed these days. Staring at his teacher, Peter tried very hard to keep the surprise and panic out of his face, but he was doing a poor job of it if the giggling from two nearby girls was anything to go by. “H-hi, Mr. Harrington! You’re looking very... uh... harried?”

_... Is being triply screwed a thing?_

“My office. Now.” Mr. Harrington stepped back, throwing an arm towards the door nearest to them – his classroom and office – and Peter went willingly, striding quickly through the open door and turning around to face his teacher. The man looked angrier than Peter could say he’d ever seen him, and at that moment he knew the least disastrous thing to come of this would be detention.

Mr. Harrington strode over to his desk and opened a few drawers, dumping Peter’s field trip packet onto a stack of pop quizzes. Then, a second of searching later, he brought out a copy of Dr. Banner’s letter. Gesturing, the teacher exclaimed, “Would you like to explain why you went to _this_ much trouble to get _one day_ off school?”

“Uh,” Peter began, not a strong start by any means, and then he cleared his throat. “I was—I got taken ill on Monday night at-at my internship. My Aunt was working late, so Mr. Stark said I could just stay at the Tower and then Dr. Banner was there anyway, so they took my temperature – said I-I had a twenty-four hour thing, so...” So obviously Mr. Happy Hogan dropped off Peter’s homework, the field trip packet to SI, and Dr Banner’s sick note. Obviously that was definitely something Mr. Stark would think to do for his intern--his personal intern, that is.

Mr. Harrington listened and went very quiet, his eyes shifting from the paperwork to Peter and back. He casually reached for the packet and opened it, taking out the badge-verification card and the permission slip. “You know, Mr. Parker, you were meant to keep the rest of this? To study it before Friday...” He arched an eyebrow, and Peter responded by doing the same. Mr. Harrington leant over his desk, running the permission slip between his fingers. “Now... I’m going to overlook that entire lie you just told _and_ , Mr. Parker, despite my better judgement I am going to allow you on to the field trip because it is a governmental requirement of your education – the Open For All initiative, that is – _but_ I am going to ask you, just this once, to _tell the truth_.”

Peter stared at him, both dumb and struck. “When haven’t I told the truth?” he asked, in the full knowledge he was pressing buttons here.

Mr. Harrington set the permission slip down and pushed it across, tapping the signature. “Oh, how about when you _forged Tony Stark’s name_?” he barked lowly, taking off his glasses to set Peter with a squinty-eyed glare. “This is an illegal act, Mr. Parker and – I will add off of the record here – an absolutely sad attempt at gaining approval from your peers as to maintain these _stupid_ internship lies. We’ve been over this, Peter—we looked at the website together. You _cannot be an intern_.”

Peter stared at the permission slip hard, letting out a long sigh which, in the teacher’s eyes he realised soon after, could be misconstrued as guilt. _Shit_. “Mr. Harrington, I know you don’t believe me, but it’s true. Please. You’ve _seen_ Mr. Stark’s reports! And the photo he and I took as verification!” _Reports can be written by anyone. Photos can be shopped. Shit. Shit_.

“I don’t want to hear this, Mr. Parker. I want to hear you tell the truth, or-” Mr. Harrington paused, straightening up. “Or we’ll settle this on Friday at SI itself, and – off the record, Peter – you’ll never have a chance further down the line to actually apply for an internship, or a job at Stark Industries as I _doubt_ , no matter how smart you are, they’ll want a kid who lied about being on their staff in _high school_.” He clenched his fist on the table and let out a long, drained sigh. “Thankfully, neither OFA nor Stark Industries actually ask to see if you’ve got permission from a parent or guardian – or you’d be screwed, Peter – but this will go on your permanent record.” Mr. Harrington flung his hand at the door. “You’re dismissed. Don’t be late for class later.”

Peter blinked a few times, disbelief spiralling through him at how the teacher had spoken to him – now, he was absolutely, 100% sure that broke multiple safespace policies. But, as he’d always done, Peter gathered every ounce of his shredded dignity and tightened his hold on his backpack. “See you later, Mister Harrington.”

“Peter,” Mr. Harrington called, collecting up the packet. “Don’t forget this – look over the rules before Friday, all right? We’ll be testing you kids on them in the bus.”

Nodding, but without audible agreement, Peter took the packet. He knew the rules better than Mr. Stark did.

“Oh, and Mr. Parker?”

Peter paused with his hand on the door, knowing the bell above his head would go off any minute now and leave him stranded in a noise-induced headache for the next several hours. “Yes, sir?” He turned slightly to see Mr. Harrington was holding open the badge-verification card, and Peter’s stomach dropped through the floor.

Under his neatly-written information, Mr. Stark had left a small note- “ _FRIDAY, my AI, recognises Pete’s biometrics and he already has a damn badge –TS_ ”.

Mr. Harrington hummed in laughter at Peter’s face, as all the colour washed out of it and he felt everything around him begin to spin. Only Mr. Harrington speaking brought him out of it, “These _are_ sent to SI, Mr. Parker.” He closed it and set it to one side. “We’ll see what happens on Friday, hm?”

The bell rang and Peter stepped out into the hallway, other teenagers pushing past him. He had to go to AP Physics, but he could barely get to his locker to find his books. The corridor emptied of anyone besides him a few moments later and he closed his locker, shoving his forehead against the cool metal to exclaim against it, “I’m not screwed. I'm dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed ! ~~as Peter most certainly did not~~.  
> We're getting real close to the actual field trip part of this field trip fic now. I promise.


	4. Wednesday into Thursday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Peter’s life on Thursday, the day after Wednesday, from the moment he woke up at six-thirty AM was played out in snippets which gradually formed into just another day he had to get through. He was good at that, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _*noses chapter towards you.*_  
>    
> Thank you guys for all your comments, kudos and love <3
> 
> Edited 11/04/2020
> 
> The awesome [InformalFallacy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InformalFallacy/pseuds/InformalFallacy) has very politely made a TVTropes page for Open For All ! [Click Here!](https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Fanfic/OpenForAll) to go to it :)

The rest of Peter’s Wednesday at school could be summed up by a single name: Eugene ‘Flash’ Thompson.

As if it wasn’t enough to have a teacher who hated you. Flash, as Peter begrudgingly called him (it was his preferred name, after all, and Peter had a lot of feelings about names), was a nightmare contained in a human-shaped sack and, of course, was one of the ‘popular’ kids. He also had a weird hard-on for talking about his wealth, which Peter couldn’t quite understand. Peter himself had a credit card, gifted to him by Mr. Stark, with an unlimited spending budget which left him hunched over ATMs for dear life. Why anyone would want to actually _brag_ about how much their dad made was beyond Peter’s understanding.

Just seeing Mr. Stark’s referenced wealth in articles often made Peter scratch his head. Why would you want to go around telling people you had millions? Billions? It just made you a target—and those you cared about, too. It was why, when the _Rich List_ arrived, Peter stole it and casually sharpie-penned in _Burglary List_ overtop it. He’d managed to get it blamed on Clint; an added bonus.

Although Mr. Stark wasn’t on the very top of the List, he was near it; much like the Osborns were. On the other hand, Flash’s father was actually nearer the middle ground, sinking with each edition as far as Peter could tell from a quick graph he’d made at lunch after doing comparisons on the internet. Maths, as he’d always known, was fun.

 _Fun._ Flash usually made fun of Peter – bully was probably a better word for it – but Peter tried very hard not to pay attention. Put simply, he let it sit on his shoulders until he had a few moments alone in the gym and then beat the living crap out of the heaviest punching bag he could find.

Peter shared quite a few classes with Flash, and through all of them he was usually the target of some minor rant the other boy had on something—until, that is, Spider-Man would eventually come up and Flash would remind everyone he was _the biggest_ Spider-Man fanboy who ever lived. On this typical Wednesday, during Spanish class, Spider-Man was briefly mentioned, touched on, and dragged through the mud for his inactivity by Betty Brant. Peter, for his part, made a small show of agreeing with her because, frankly, he too was a little annoyed with Spider-Man – with himself – for failing to do anything lately.

“He’s probably just tired from-from saving people all the time!” Flash hissed, leaning across to Betty’s desk so he could sneer at Peter. “Give the guy a break! He helped defeat Thanos!”

“Yeah, sure he did,” Peter replied, not in the mood. In response, Flash _humpf_ ed and, when the teacher noticed, sat back in his chair with a grimace. Out of the corner of Peter’s eye, he saw the inevitable words being mouthed:

“ _You’re dead, Penis Parker_.”

Peter returned to concentrating on his Spanish. Flash didn’t know how right he was.

The next class they shared played out in the same fashion, but it was the little things that changed: a joke which Peter would have told Ned, had Ned been there, but instead he muttered it a little too loud in hopes of getting a reaction. Flash was the only one who replied, but he made sure everyone knew about it: “Ah, ha-ha-ha! Parker just told a joke! Without his fat friend here, no one even cares!”

The teacher did nothing. Peter hadn’t expected her to. The next class, again, the teacher did nothing when Flash rammed him straight into a desk: “Oh, did that hurt, Parker? Maybe you should get your mommy to kiss it better! Oh, wait—she can’t! Ha-ha!”

Peter was pretty used to the dead parent jokes, now. They did something a little weird in his stomach – it twisted, of course, because _the idea_ behind the joke still hurt and, yeah, his mom was dead, and Aunt May, who was similar to a mom, was also dead. But Pepper was alive. Pepper was like a mom, even if he wouldn’t say it to her face (not yet, anyway; she wasn’t big on jokes either, so that was a difficult one to navigate). She didn’t look at him like he was anymore of a problem to solve than Mr. Stark was, which actually made Peter laugh sometimes.

A small, tentative part of Peter wanted to say, “ _she looks at both her boys in the same way_ ” but he’d never say that. It was dangerous to even think that way. But she was nice, and kind to him; she warned him about anything happening if it concerned him, or could interrupt his peace at the Tower; she touched his hair sometimes, fixed it; she made sure he had his favourite soda; and, just once, she’d kissed his forehead. Like moms do.

Peter only remembered the brief feeling of it; the cherry press of her lips. It was when he’d first moved into the Tower, on his second or third night, and he’d had a shit day. Like, a _really_ shit day. Mr. Stark had yelled at him about college that morning—then school happened and Peter basically blanked a whole pop quiz—then Flash happened—then Mr. Harrington told them all about his ex-wife again—and then he’d gotten out of school and not wanted to go back to the Tower immediately. Instead, he’d gone to Mr Delmar’s and gotten a sandwich. Mr. Delmar said, curtly, he knew what happened to May, and if Peter needed anything he could rely on all of Queens to pitch in.

This was the point Peter was meant to turn to him and say _thank you_ and how much it meant to him. But he didn’t. No, he couldn’t—so he ran. He ran. He ran. He didn’t stop running until he came to the Oscorp building. Peter had avoided it since _that day_ , always making sure never to even go near it lest Norman Osborn be coming out of it. Stark Industries and Oscorp were not rivals, per say, never would Peter truly have to worry about them, but—

But that didn’t matter; back to the present Wednesday.

Flash didn’t bother Peter at lunch, which was a lucky thing considering that graph he drew on the wealth measure of Flash’s dad’s company against Stark Industries—you know, Stark Industries: Peter’s future company and fortune. Next class, the one before Mr. Harrington’s, Peter did not share with Flash. It felt entirely too much like the quiet before the storm.

Mr. Harrington’s class went as it normally did, as if the teacher had never verbally abused or threatened Peter that morning. Flash was, as he had been, an asshole—but he proved in being the biggest one yet in the class where he knew the teacher was an ally of his. “Hey, Parker!” Flash called after chasing the last remnants of whatever he’d been eating; it smelled like pineapple. “Lookin’ forward to having your _lies_ found out? That is, if you’re actually going on Friday? Or are you gonna duck out like weirdo and Leeds?”

“I am going, Flash. It’s required,” said Peter matter-of-factly, thinking that was probably the best course of action to deal with him in Mr. Harrington’s class. The least bad of any options he had was just to shrug it off as not a big deal; make no big statements: do not enter into a war.

“Ooh, so you aren’t _scared_ of having your lies disproven, Parker?” Flash baited, as Mr. Harrington flipped through books and wrote calculations on the whiteboard. “We all know you don’t have an internship, you know.”

“Well, if you all know that, then I should know that too,” Peter replied and watched as Flash opened and closed his mouth like a fish, his hand up, index finger pointing, and looking like a dumbass as he tried to work out what Peter meant. It was simple really, just repeating back words in a different manner.

Flash cut a curt glance over at Mr. Harrington. “Sir?”

Mr. Harrington looked up, as though he hadn’t been listening, and corrected his small glasses. “Yes, Flash?”

“Are Stark Industries going to let Parker in after all the lies he’s been telling?” Flash asked, interrupting the rest of the class’ musings over their textbooks and phones.

At first, the teacher didn’t react past a hum, turning back to quickly write a last word on the whiteboard before he addressed Flash. “Well, of course, we have to take what Peter has told us with a grain of salt, Flash, but if there are any problems I am sure the school will be informed before Friday.”

“What if they don’t let the rest of us on the field trip because of it?” Flash pressed, his smile all sharp edges and teeth.

Mr. Harrington straightened up suddenly, as if this was a realisation and something he hadn’t accounted for. “Well... No. I doubt they’d do that, Flash. This field trip is organised by the OFA initiative and, though Stark Industries is involved in the process, I’m pretty sure all they’re doing is opening the doors and printing the badges.”

“You don’t even get one of the SI tour guides,” Peter said, leaning over his workbook. A heavy silence descended on the room after he’d spoken, but he tried very hard to ignore it—at least temporarily—flicking a glance at his watch in hopes it would tell him the bell was only seconds away from going off to signal the end of the day. It wasn’t.

“How would you know that?” asked Abe Brown.

Peter rubbed his fingers over his pencil, resisting the urge to bite it out of nervous habit. He finally raised his eyes from the page he’d attempted to read twice now and stared up at Mr. Harrington who’d come to stand in front of his desk.

“Yes, Mr. Parker,” said Mr. Harrington in a dangerous whisper. “How do you know that?”

There was no other way of getting out of this than the hard truth—or, at least, what should have been the school’s hard truth. “I have an internship,” said Peter, clearly and calmly. “With Tony Stark. I’ve seen other OFA tours conducted in the Tower—I’m _regularly_ pulled out of labs to answer questions on account of _who I am_.” He threw a look at where Ned would usually sit, a hollow feeling settling in his chest; there was no one to back up around him. He was on his own here.

 _C’mon, Parker. Keep it together. Keep it together_.

“Mr. Parker,” said Mr. Harrington, quiet and full of unrelenting, private fury. “I thought we had this conversation.”

“We did, Mr. Harrington,” Peter replied, his pulse rising, his leg bouncing; he could feel the pencil snapping between his fingers. He took in a deep breath and let it out. Peter thought of Harley’s smart-alecky honesty; of Pepper’s false kindnesses; Steve’s polite but firm responses. Most of all, he thought of Mr Stark: Of how much Peter and he shared; the curt, sarcastic replies with a bite at the end; the down-to-the-last-finger array of gestures; the shoulders-back, stare-death-in-the-face-and-laugh moments. Peter stopped biting his lip, something he hadn’t even realised he was doing, and sat up, crossing one ankle over the other as he said, “So, I guess we’ll see come Friday, right?”

Mr. Harrington’s eyebrows shifted upwards, and Flash was silent for once. Peter didn’t quite understand what he’d done, because Peter Parker was not the type who sat in front of a teacher and growled his response. Peter Parker did not stand up for himself. Peter Parker did not display conscious confidence in the face of adversity nor in front of people all too willing to say he was a liar. Peter Parker took those things on the chin and let them knock him back. Peter Parker let those things settle on his shoulders and press him into the ground. Peter Parker allowed himself to be beaten, stamped on, trodden over and pushed around.

Peter Parker did not sit at his desk, his legs stretched to full length beneath it, his ankles crossed, and snap a pencil in half as he stared at his asshole teacher. Except, currently, he did.

Mr. Harrington drew in a sharp breath and turned around, heading back to the whiteboard with a firm shake to his shoulders. Flash, meanwhile, had gone a little more quiet than usual—although it wouldn’t last; he’d go home to the suburbs and convince himself puny Penis Parker hadn’t stood up for himself for once.

As the class ticked by in hardy silence, apart from Mr. Harrington’s droning voice, Peter sat back in his chair and let his mind drift; he knew this spiel. He knew exactly everything his teacher was trying to teach, and for once it actually bored him with how little the homework was going to challenge him tonight. He’d breeze through it in an hour, tops, which meant he’d still have a little time to do something interesting.

It would strike Peter, coming out of school after class and walking off to meet Happy, how very _Stark_ he’d behaved and how little he cared about it.

###### 

Peter’s life on Thursday, the day after Wednesday, from the moment he woke up at six-thirty AM was played out in snippets which gradually formed into just another day he had to get through. He was good at that, though.

(Uncle) Rhodey arrived the night before and Peter greeted him with a short hug at breakfast (the first time Peter had actually seen him, as Rhodey had gone pretty much straight to bed when he arrived) and heard all about the Airbase the retired pilot was currently stationed at, helping with training up young soldiers. Harley, sitting beside Peter, listened with his mouth open half the time, dropping in random questions and comments which Rhodey politely answered with the patience of a saint.

“Don’t put ideas in their heads,” Mr. Stark laughed, looking up from his Starkpad. It gave an irritated bleep suddenly and he turned back to it, jabbing it with his finger. “Well, dammit.”

“What’s wrong, Tones?” Rhodey asked, breaking off from explaining the thrilling inner workings of a turbine engine.

“Pepper wants me in two meetings today, scheduled to last about two – three hours each?” Mr. Stark ran a hand down his face and let out a long, heaving sigh. “Pete, you and Harley can bunk up in the lab when you get back from school, right? I’ll join you after I finish with the Board.”

“The Board?” Peter blinked. An image of the sour-faced, briefcase-carrying, triple-chinned bulldogs entered his mind; he was not a fan of their current Board. “What do they want?”

Mr. Stark stabbed his ‘pad a couple of times and activated a hologram: on it was displayed a note from—

“It’s about that stupid field trip,” Mr. Stark replied, typing quickly on to the screen. “Secretary Rosendale herself will be joining it.”

Harley sputtered into his cereal, and Peter thought he might choke on his toast. “What?” both of them exclaimed. “Rosendale—she’s not—is she leading the tour herself?”

“No,” said Mr. Stark, sucking in a breath. “Thankfully. But she’s – well, she wants to be proven right, basically, and what better way to do that than to tag along with a tour group...” He gestured vaguely toward Rhodey, who looked smugly curious about why this mattered. “Before you start thinking anything, platypus, the reason _this_ field trip is important is because it’s Peter’s class.”

“Oh,” Rhodey replied in earnest, his expression shifting as he turned a look on Peter. “But... Why do _you_ need to tour your—well, puttin’ it bluntly, here, Pete—Why do you need to tour what’s practically your own company?” The gentle sweep of his voice had a soothing influence on everyone at the table, breaking down the high tension with just a sentence about the absurd situation.

“That’s Peter’s other problem,” Harley broke in, clenching and unclenching his spoon. “No one believes him about the ‘internship’. Right?” Harley threw Peter a stunted glance, something else sitting in the corner of his eye, and then reached to give his shoulder an almost brotherly squeeze. “Well, you’re gonna have to prove ‘em wrong, right?”

“I guess,” Peter replied, the first instance he might be considering it; he didn’t miss the way Mr. Stark’s eyes lit up. “But, Mr. Stark, I—I don’t know how to do that without compromising—you know...” He gave a lame, half-hearted motion between himself and the older man, who seemed to immediately understand.

Mr. Stark sat back in his chair and turned his head to look at Rhodey, letting out a big sigh. “I... I don’t know, Pete. We’ll think of something—I mean... Maybe it’s best if everyone just knows.” Mr. Stark, for his point, did not look Peter in the eye—did not even glance his way; he knew what it implied, both of them did.

“Bu-but Spider-Man-”

“Not Spider-Man, kid.” Mr. Stark’s eyes, so sharply intelligent, turned on Peter across the table. “Peter Parker. Maybe it’s best if they just know who Peter Parker really is.” Though he spoke quietly, carefully, the hopeful lint in Mr. Stark’s voice was undeniable.

The kitchen went silent, as Peter processed exactly what the words meant—what they had to mean. The pressure sitting on his shoulders weighted him down, staring at his fourth piece of toast; it had gone cold, now, and cold toast was one of the worst things in existence. He’d never mentioned it to May, because hell if she needed to worry about him getting pernickety about his breakfast, but Mr. Stark knew—because Mr. Stark could deal with it. Suddenly, though, Peter was definitely not hungry. He pushed the plate to one side. “Can I think about it?” he asked into the silence, and it jolted Mr. Stark into a better sitting position; one nicer on his back than the hunch he’d taken up. Peter raised an eyebrow in response to the odd reaction, when he realised he’d never even mentioned _considering_ it before now. This was him, considering coming out as Tony Stark’s son and heir.

“Of course, Pete.”

“I’m sure this’ll all work out fine,” Harley broke in, obviously a little whirlwinded himself. He paused in grabbing his coffee, and wrinkled his nose at the chill to have settled in the liquid. “I’mma make another. D’you want one, Tony? Rhodey?”

“Uh, sure. Thank you, Harley,” Rhodey nodded, passing his cup. Mr. Stark wordlessly pushed his across.

Peter left for school a few minutes later.

+

Flash was abnormally docile when Peter and he first saw each other, and Peter brazenly wondered if, maybe, in standing up for himself just that once he’d taken down his bully.

Boy was he wrong.

The first chance Peter was alone in the corridor, grabbing out his books for math, was when Flash struck. Legitimately struck. It only hurt because Peter hadn’t expected it, and his Spidey Sense hadn’t warned him—the rasp of Flash’s hand slamming across the back of his neck jolting. “Learn your place, Penis,” Flash huffed, when Peter grabbed his neck and turned to watch him walk away.

The second time was between their next classes and, once again, it was another smooth hit – this time to the side of Peter’s head because his Spidey Sense kicked in and avoided it landing on his cheek; he wasn’t sure Flash had the ability to bruise normally, but definitely not Peter. It would do no good to have a second-there-second-gone handprint on his face.

The third was lunch. Peter was scoffing down his food, hungrier than usual, and paying attention to an article on Secretary Rosendale; he figured he should be prepared to deal with her tomorrow, and at least know who she was past the OFA scheme. Turns out, she was boring as all Hell. He was so wrapped up in reading the only notice he had of Flash was the sudden _DANGER_ his Spidey Sense triggered before his tray was being upturned—on him. He leapt from his chair – luckily not high enough to cause any more commotion than what was necessary – and fell backwards, hitting the floor behind him with heavy impact. Peter groaned from the surprise – and the hot soup and cold pudding seeping into his clothes – and sat up immediately.

A few students rushed over to help him, offering him tissues and one, apparently a figure skater although he’d never thought about it very hard, immediately began checking his head for injuries. There wasn’t any bleeding, no cut – not that those wouldn’t have immediately been taken care thanks to his advanced healing factor – but Mr. Dell ushered him off to the medic office anyway. The embarrassment flushed him as he stood up and looked down at his wet, food-stained clothes. It was all he could do to let the moment fuel his anger and not his sadness, or else he knew he’d be in stress-induced tears.

The walk to the office felt longer than any other time, hearing the whispers of students late to lunch as loud as if they were shouting. It was his choice to dwell on their words. The medical officer checked his head again, his wrists and his back and shoulders, but found no need to be concerned past a minor concussion. “Now, your clothes...”

“Uh, I have an extra tee-shirt,” Peter replied, brushing off a slice of tomato.

+

Gym wasn’t awful. Flash pushed him, and made sure during dodge ball to smack Peter extra hard—usually, it would have bounced off and he’d have to fake a fall. He didn’t fake it today, and just lay there a moment in the recovery position as his head rang. “Parker!” Coach Wilson called from the sidelines. “Get off the field!”

As mentioned, Gym wasn’t bad. No, the worst part was when it came to putting his other clothes back on. The stained shirt (the chequered white and blue one; his favourite) was in a bag for washing when he got home, but his jeans had to go back on. They were more than just icky, being still slightly damp, and the slight white stain near the crotch definitely drew a few amused glances as he walked into Mr. Harrington’s class.

He’d get through it. “Now, class!” Mr. Harrington called when they neared the end of the lesson. He held up a packet, like the one they’d been given on Monday. “You all brought back your permission slips and verification cards – barring Miss Jones and Mister Leeds, of course – and so I thought we’d spend the last portion of the day just going over exactly what’s happening tomorrow.” He settled against the desk, his piss-yellow jacket swapped out for mouldy-green. “We will meet with Mr. Dell’s class on the steps at eight-o-clock and go in a single bus to Stark Industries. Our tour officially begins at nine-o-clock, but we can probably expect to be actually going around the building at nine-twenty – accounting for security, badges...” Mr. Harrington motioned with his hand in a _’and so on’_ manner.

 _And press for Secretary Rosendale_ , thought Peter with dismissive optimism, wearing a smile which didn’t represent his mood. On his reading of her, she seemed to be a self-concentrated bitch of mega proportions who took every opportunity for a photo op and to drag the media with her everywhere she went. He’d grown uneasy at the thought, especially if she was going to be tagging along with the tour to the point when – well, it was obvious something was going to happen. That was just Parker luck.

Then again, Peter might have been raised a Parker, but he wasn’t one, was he? He was a Fitzpatrick. And a Stark. He didn’t have any responsibility to the name Parker – not anymore – no legacy of it, no safeguarding and, he realised with a twist of his gut, not much love for it either. Not really.

He definitely didn’t have any supposed ‘luck’ with it. Obviously, his was own-brand.

“Do we know who our tour guide is?” asked Betty. “I was hoping to research their field and come up with suitable questions.”

 _Why waste your life giving tours of a place you don’t work?_ thought Peter.

Beside her, Sally Avril jumped in with, “Is it going to be one of the SI interns? Or-or scientists?”

 _You’d think so, wouldn’t you?_ Peter’s thoughts deepened.

“An engineer?” Abe laid his head on his folded arms.

 _None of you listened, so I’m not even sorry_. Peter crossed his arms.

Mr. Harrington looked at his paperwork. “No. It’s someone from the OFA’s tour guide network.” As the excitement in the room faded, the teacher said, “Don’t worry. They know exactly everything they need to know to give us a great tour and to provide us with insights into the working world of Stark Industries.”

“So,” said Charles Murphy, twirling a pen between his fingers. “Peter was... right? We aren’t actually getting someone who _knows_ SI, or even works there?”

Although unsurprised by the lacklustre Mr. Harrington’s announcement brought with it, Peter _was_ surprised with how sudden the energy around him spiked. He and Charles had been friends once, for a while, until Flash cornered them and hassled Peter; baited him and pressed all the right buttons at the time. Charles had, dramatically, turned on Peter as well and begun using the ‘Penis Parker’ handle Flash was so fond of.

Obviously, this turn of events – that Peter could actually be _a someone_ – made Mr. Harrington more than a little angry. “You can read that on the website,” the teacher covered quickly. “Didn’t any of you look at the assigned reading? Well, OK, then: Good job, Mr. Parker, for actually doing what you’re meant to.” He shot Peter a firm look. “Now, yes, that’s it. We will not be touring with someone from SI itself, but we will be able to meet scientists, go around the labs, talk to executives, business, and engineering and check out R&D—and interns!” Mr. Harrington had the paperwork to his face, his glasses pushed onto his forehead, squinting as he read. “The tour is a whole day, after all – and lunch is included. It says here, for you fans, there may even be a chance to glimpse The Avengers and their associates, too. But no guarantee.”

 _I think I can guarantee it_ thought Peter, pressing back the groan threatening to do away with the cool facade he’d so far kept. Despite Mr. Stark insisting no one would do anything if Peter didn’t want them to, he had the brewing feeling of trouble stirring in his gut with each thought about tomorrow’s field trip. Of course the Avengers were planning to pop in on them, even if only to check up on Peter’s wellbeing after the last few rocky weeks of living.

The worst part of all this, Peter reflected as Mr. Harrington began talking about the layout of the day (walking, talking, lunch, walking, talking...), was going to be not having Ned or MJ there with him. Neither of them would be able to pull him out of the funk he was sure to get his head into tomorrow, so it would either mean the Avengers had to do it – and his crazy 'family' didn’t mess about with cheer-ups – or he’d have to be in a deep, but well-hidden depression all day. Any which way he looked at it, Peter was definitely not looking forward to the inevitable everything.

“Now, there is some other big news,” said Mr. Harrington, drawing the class and their strayed attention. “As you all know, Open For All is presided over by the Secretary of Education – Maria Rosendale. Before the OFA initiative was signed into law, the Secretary went around to most of the major companies operating in New York, Los Angeles, Washington DC, Chicago and Boston, and asked if they would endorse it in both a monetary sense and to open their doors to children and teenagers to see their inner workings. Most didn’t – including Stark Industries – so Secretary Rosendale decided it was better signed into law—as, at this point, the previous administration’s attempt at doing something similar had been disbanded.” He gave the history lesson drily, motioning awkwardly around at the space as if showing some astounding tale of mystery and intrigue. “Now, thanks to Secretary Rosendale, we can go on these more extensive trips into companies and to witness how everything works! So, you’ll have something – a goal – to work towards.”

“What does this have to do with the field trip?” asked Abe, raising a hand like it would matter after he’d already asked the question.

“Well, Mr. Brown, Secretary Rosendale will actually be accompanying us on the field trip through Stark Industries.” A few hums, none excited, came out in a very muted way towards him. “It’s actually the school’s understanding she is going for a meeting with Mr. Stark, but thought she would evaluate how her initiative is doing—especially in such a globally-minded company.”

Peter raised his eyes. That was... news to him. Mr. Stark hadn’t mentioned a meeting with Secretary Rosendale—and neither had Pepper. He’d thought SI were actually in the process of helping to tie up the loose ends of OFA, but hadn’t realised Mr. Stark was directly involved. Mentally, Peter noted to ask him tonight.

“Are we going to get to meet Tony Stark?” asked Flash, leaning over his desk. “An-and you mentioned the Avengers and—Do you think Spider-Man will be there?”

“Mr. Stark is a busy man,” said Mr. Harrington, as if he knew him personally, flicking a glare towards Peter when he snorted (Mr. Stark was a busy man, if busy meant spending an entire day on _World of Warcraft_ last Tuesday). “Unfortunately, Flash, nothing like that is guaranteed. Don’t get your hopes up, all right?” The bell rang suddenly, jolting everyone from their stupor. “Uh- oh! OK. Well, dismissed, everyone! I look forward to seeing you all here bright and early tomorrow morning!”

+

Peter arrived outside the Tower after taking the express home; Happy was off at a doctor’s appointment today, so had begrudgingly allowed Peter to travel home by public transport. He’d considered donning the Spider-Man suit for a few hours, knowing Mr. Stark was in meetings, but he hadn’t hung out just with Harley for a while and knowing he was travelling back on Sunday to MIT left a Harley-shaped hole in his heart.

He used the front entrance to get into the Tower, as he’d always done except for when there were media people about—but even then not many people ever questioned the boy wandering in with his school bag, stepping through FRIDAY’s sensors without removing a thing for scanning and proceeding to use the _other_ elevator down the hall and to the left to get him wherever he needed to go.

Adjusting his wireless earbuds, Peter walked as casually through the huge reception as he did through Queens’ streets, clenching his backpack by one hand as he waltzed past the check-in ladies with a quick wave to them.

There’d only been once when his being there had been questioned: right at the beginning after the Blip, on his second or third time coming to the labs. Back then, he used to only come in when basically everyone had gone home and Happy was there to get him where he needed to be, but Mr. Stark had texted him at school and told him to come straight to the lab because he’d needed an extra set of hands for something. Of course, that meant coming in the front (at the time, Peter had had no access to the backdoor) at a busy time of the day. Security had cornered him immediately, even as he showed them his badge; they hadn’t believed his Level, had wanted to get the police involved even. Happy didn’t help, as Peter had naturally thought Mr. Stark would have mentioned, “ _Oh yeah, the kid’s coming in_.” But he hadn’t, so Happy wasn’t sure why Peter was there either, which was a shit choice of words when you had two trigger-happy security guards pointing their guns at you.

In the end, Mr. Stark himself had popped down when his _’intern’_ didn’t show up for several minutes after Peter had texted saying he was just coming in the reception. As was natural when the owner of the company appeared on the ground floor, he’d been pretty much swamped until, thankfully, Peter’s pleas had reached him and his media smile faded away to an angry grimace. After that, everyone knew Peter Parker was meant to be there.

Since then, Peter had gotten to know the reception staff and the two security guys (they laughed about it, now), who pretty much just ushered him through. They never saw him leave until morning, if he did decide to go out the front (which wasn’t normal; he left when lots of people were arriving and it made no sense to get on peoples’ nerves in that way), and Peter wasn’t entirely sure if they didn’t think something was up about that. A kid, who was supposedly Mr. Tony Stark’s intern, who left every morning and arrived back every evening like some of the Avengers did. If he was in their position, he knew he’d have added to any ongoing gossip around the Kid, as he was informally known thanks to Mr. Stark.

In reality, Peter wasn’t really an intern of Stark Industries – Mr. Stark was perfectly right when he said it was more of a job, even though Peter wasn’t paid (except with the aforementioned credit card he never worried about the balance of). He did go down through the departments and do ‘check-ins’ with a couple of them. He liked helping out; he wanted (one day) to be that sort of Boss, which was a crazy thought to even have and one he definitely only allowed to fester when he was heading off to sleep. In some ways, Peter could almost say he was more Pepper’s intern with how often he handled her paperwork and dropped it off at the various black-windowed offices. He’d even sat in on a few meetings at her request, to take notes she never read.

Peter knew exactly what she was doing.

In a way, he supposed he was pretty much exactly what he was meant to one day be. For the last eight months after school, and during holidays and weekends, he’d regularly stomped around from business to R&D to engineering, to automotive, to the labs and everything in between. Just last week, Peter had had to go to construction and check through a schematic someone had wrongly sent down, and then authorise (because he’d been the only available person with the right badge level) and set-up a hologram projector to overlay the correct blueprints. It had been a bit of a mess, but he got through it with FRIDAY’s help and Mr. Stark on speaker phone to talk him through the installing process.

The thing about him at SI was no one really knew who he was beyond being the Kid. They didn’t know why he showed up and did things even their heads of department couldn’t do. They had no clue as to why this seventeen-year-old kid, with his black badge, strode up and down the building talking to FRIDAY, contacting Mr. Stark at a moment’s notice and delivering classified paperwork for Pepper Potts, CEO.

They’d just learnt to accept it, which Peter was thankful for after the rocky few months he’d had at the beginning when he’d first been learning where everything was and how everything worked. He’d turned up in HR when he was meant to be going to PR and vice versa a couple of times, and gone to the cafeteria when he should have been heading to the labs, automotive when he was meant to be in construction, but after a while he’d slowly managed to mind-map the whole building by day and, most helpfully, night—it had come to Mr. Stark as an offhanded idea, but they’d decided to try it a few nights later: Peter had to walk through the deserted hallways with only FRIDAY as his guide in his very helpful little earpieces and find certain Avengers in certain places before a certain time. Although it started out as a way for Peter to learn the inconsistencies of Stark Industries’ New York branch, the Home Branch, it had overtime evolved into a game played regularly between them all and now without FRIDAY’s direct involvement.

Peter loved it.

Back to Thursday. Peter adjusted the earbuds again, pausing to wait for FRIDAY to connect up before he went any further. From experience, walking through the security gates when you were Peter Parker was no fun. FRIDAY was obliged to welcome each and every person through the gates, as well as being used for an extra layer of identification and safety. This meant she announced everyone, which in turn meant when intern John Doe walked through, FRIDAY would loudly and proudly proclaim, “John Doe; R&D intern; Level 3. Supervisor: Dr Jane Doe. Hello, John Doe!”

The thing which was different for Peter, and for a few others, was FRIDAY actually _spoke_ to him in her announcements, which could be embarrassing and could very possibly (and almost had several times) blow his identity. Nowadays, that meant he used an earpiece connecting remotely into her so he could pass through without any fanfare. Peter heard the little click in his ear of her connecting in and happily walked towards the gates after grabbing a cookie from one of the reception ladies, throwing the guards – who were busily patting down a businessman – a quick wave. The businessman’s face, neutral, turned to outrage at the fact a kid was going through without a glance and yet he had to go through a pat-down.

Peter didn’t stick around to listen to his muttering, taking a bite of his cookie as FRIDAY belatedly welcomed him, “Peter B. Parker bracket Stark bracket; classified; Level 0. Supervisor: Boss. Peter! Hello! My systems have recently received an update. I hope you are all right with that?” She sounded inquisitive to Peter’s ear.

He’d noticed the update, and gave an awkward chuckle as he wandered down the hallway to the elevator. “I noticed, FRIDAY,” he said aloud, taking out his phone to make it look more conversational. It would be more difficult to do that soon, when Karen was eventually programmed in properly. “What’s that about... about the name?” Peter asked, remaining calm as a couple of SI’s real interns came crashing around the corner and straight passed him.

“It is an update I received to my system in regards to who is restricted from accessing the penthouse.”

“Oh.” Peter wasn’t sure why it made him feel disappointed. “Uh... but why? Who else has it?”

FRIDAY was quiet for a moment, and then, “Anyone listed in my system as Stark is currently granted automatic access to the penthouse. It is not a name, but a handle for my database to cleanly work out exactly who is allowed up without needing authorisation from Boss. This is due to a security concern discovered in my coding last week, which would require significant reprogramming if not for this workaround. Are you OK with it, Peter?”

“Uh, yeah, I-I’m fine. But who else...?” Peter stepped into the elevator. “Oh, take me to wherever Harley is, please.” The doors shut, and the elevator began to move upwards.

“Currently, the Stark holders are Pepper Potts, Happy Hogan, Harley Keener, Dr. Stephen Strange, Dr. Bruce Banner, and Colonel James Rhodes.”

“And me and Mr. Stark,” Peter said openly, fiddling with his phone.

“No,” FRIDAY responded, and Peter’s mouth slid up into a confused smile. “Boss is currently listed under name basis. He has no use of the Stark handle, as it would be redundant.”

 _Tony Stark Stark sounds amazing though._ “And what about me, FRIDAY?” Peter asked, twiddling his thumbs; the elevator was being awfully sluggish today, surely slowed down by FRIDAY herself for this conversation. “What’s my listing? You said bracket or something?”

FRIDAY didn’t reply right away, but when she did her response had an edge of concern to it. “Boss has not listed you, Peter. He has left it up to you. I am instructed to give you the same privileges as Boss and Pepper Potts. Currently, the brackets are to indicate handle form.”

“So, I have options?”

“Yes. You can leave it in handle form, have it as name form, or hyphen form.”

It was Peter’s turn to be silent. His mouth ballooned as he stood there, his eyebrows rising up faintly with time as the elevator pulled to a stop but the doors didn’t open. This... felt like a choice—of course, Mr. Stark wasn’t forcing him to do anything, but it did feel as if he was allowing Peter to think more of the future, of the future he wanted. In an odd way, it felt incredibly freeing. “FRIDAY,” said Peter. “Could I hear it in hyphen form?”

“Peter B. Parker-Stark.”

Peter opened his mouth and closed it again, the breath knocked out of him. Suddenly, despite the last eight months he’d lived solely in the Tower and despite the tests and the paperwork and the NDAs—well, suddenly it felt _real_. He was biologically Tony Stark’s son. Richard Parker was not his blood-borne father. Benjamin Franklin Parker was not his blood-borne uncle. He had no familial relation to May Parker (née Reilly) and, according to something Mr. Stark had casually mentioned, it was possible she and Ben had known all along they were raising the son of someone they had no connection to. Now, Peter wondered if that was why May wanted to be laid to rest in Italy; if she felt more love for her old-blood country than to the not-nephew she’d raised, clothed and fed. Late at night, when the demons played tricks, Peter wondered whether she had been putting up with him more than actually being there because she felt they had a connection, blood or otherwise.

 _With great power comes great responsibility_ , thought Peter, standing alone in the elevator, as fresh tears gathered on his lashes and threatened to spill. What power did he have? Why should he feel responsible for it? “Peter,” came FRIDAY’s voice through the earpiece and he straightened up suddenly, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. “You seem to be in distress. Should I contact Mr. Stark?”

“No, FRIDAY. I-I’m... I’m getting to be fine. There’s... there’s just a lot going on in this weird, squishy human brain I have.” He sniffled, sucking in a long breath. Peter swallowed around the lump in his throat and said, “FRIDAY. Could I hear it in name form, please?”

“Peter B-”

“ _Without_ the-the B, please.”

“Peter Stark.”

The silence was deafening to Peter, and he raised a hand to cover his mouth lest he start to openly sob, or retch, or something equally unpleasant. He couldn’t handle that—he couldn’t handle ripping the Parker out of him, not yet, even after the betrayal of everyone from his younger days, even after they might have known he was more than just a kid from Queens—that he wasn’t even their kid. He couldn’t do that, not now. Not when everything surrounding him was already in the process of breaking down. It was all he could do to hold on to something familiar.

“Peter, you are in-”

“Put it in hyphen form, please, FRIDAY.” Peter swept a hand through his hair, realising he was sweating. “Uh, will you tell Mr. Stark about this...?”

“I am obliged to as it concerns you, Peter.”

Warmth flooded through Peter’s chest at the thought – at the thought of Tony Stark getting an alert on his phone from FRIDAY, just to say Peter had changed his name in FRIDAY’s system to Peter B. Parker-Stark. Hyphenated. His name was hyphenated; he could cope with that, for now. “O-OK, FRIDAY. Confirm.” He smiled, though it was still shaky.

A few agonisingly slow moments ticked by, and then she reissued her welcome into his ears, “Peter B. Parker-Stark; classified; Level 0. Supervisor: Boss. Hello, Peter. It is wonderful to see you smiling again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > Tony let out a yawn as another executive began laying out their Next Big Plan™. It was always the same: Do this, do that, make money, spend money. He wasn't sure why they bothered with meetings nowadays.
>> 
>> Suddenly, his phone gave an audible _bleep_ beside him - an alert from FRIDAY, it sounded like - and, though Pepper shot him a 'can you not?' look, Tony had to make sure everything was OK.
>> 
>> **FRIDAY ALERT** : _Peter has chosen to use the Stark handle in hyphenated form. He is now registered in my system as **Peter B. Parker-Stark**_.
>> 
>> Tony's face broke into a huge smile.


	5. Lookin' Sharp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What day is it? Friday.  
> What does that mean? Field trip.  
> What's that on Peter's hands? Bandages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _*Drops chapter into your hands* ruff_
> 
>   
> Thank you for all the love last chapter guys ! Have an early update ;)
> 
> ###### 
> 
> The awesome [InformalFallacy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InformalFallacy/pseuds/InformalFallacy) has very politely made a TVTropes page for Open For All ! [Click Here!](https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Fanfic/OpenForAll) to go to it :)

Somehow Peter lived until Friday – or, at least Friday morning – but he was resigned to the fact that was probably because the universe wanted to kill him at exactly the right time.

From the moment he woke up and looked at his bandaged fingers, he was more than sure of that. He didn’t waste any time lazing about in bed, just said good morning to FRIDAY and hopped in the shower. It didn’t go cold this time. He brushed his teeth, washed and shaved his face (currently, he was not on course to get Mr Stark’s super slick facial hair; but he wasn’t sure it was his look anyway) and applied a little cream over the last remnants of a cut from yesterday’s afternoon spent in the lab with Harley.

He checked his fingers at the same time, wincing at the tenderness; most of the splintered flesh was healed over quite well, but he still plastered them anyway – just as much to remind Mr. Stark— _Tony_ why he should never allow Peter and Harley to be alone together in the lab. It hadn’t even been either of their faults, as such (would he testify to that in a Court of Law? Probably not); Mr. Stark— **Tony** had an old Ford he kept in the back of the lab to test out modifications before putting them on his other cars. When Peter arrived home yesterday, after popping upstairs to get some orange juice and calm down (FRIDAY’s orders after the... elevator thing), he’d found Harley in the lab working on something he was planning to take back to MIT: it was an engine, an old beaten up and slightly charred one from a similar Ford to Mr.— _gah, TONY_. He’d stumbled across it in a burnt-out car near New Haven. Naturally, being of a sound mind, he’d disconnected it and brought it with him to New York.

And, of course, being they were both complete geniuses, they decided the best thing to do was to connect it to Tony’s Ford and see if it worked before Harley spent the time to make any large changes.

Which led to Tony getting pulled out of his meeting (which he’d wanted an excuse to leave, anyway; look on the bright side!) to tend to the destruction.

Luckily, no one was seriously injured—mainly because as soon as it started smoking Peter had put himself between the car and Harley and taken the brunt of the explosion. Peter just managed to close the bonnet in time when the Ford burst into flames and exploded burning metal all across the lab. Thankfully, FRIDAY had picked it up on her senses immediately and gone into shutdown, securely collapsing nearly all of the lab either into the floor, the walls or the ceiling and then covering what couldn’t be so easily removed in time; the blast left a bit of damage to one wall, and a huge black mark over the floor—oh, and it might have broken all four fingers and thumb of Peter’s left hand.

It could have been so much worse though. Harley could have died—but thankfully all he got was a small cut across his face and a bit of bruising. Of his pride. And a total ban from the lab for the foreseeable future.

FRIDAY notified Tony immediately and the damage was currently being taken care of by a trusted team of experts. But the panic in Tony’s eyes when he arrived was not easily forgettable, especially when he saw Peter. He’d stormed across the room, kicking burning metal away, and called Bruce—who was fast in behind him, having had a similar notification from FRIDAY. “Check Harley,” Peter heard himself mutter, head lolling to the side. He scrunched up his nose at the smell of burning rubber.

“That’s what Bruce is here for, kiddo,” Tony said low and quiet and very close. Peter felt the vibrations beneath him as Tony walked over and settled on the floor beside him—felt the soft breeze when the man reached out—and flinched when his hand was taken in a soft, secure grip. Tony immediately released it and swore under his breath.

Peter tried to draw himself away—to curl up—as it was how he’d solved countless things. For once, the pressure around his head – the tinny ringing – soothed him and put him nearer to sleep.

“Hey, Pete,” Tony muttered, his voice wavering. “No. Hey. _Hey_. Wake up – not time to sleep yet, kiddo. Need you to _stay awake_. C’mon, Spiderling.”

“Please, Mr. Stark, I’m tired.”

“I know, kid.” Peter hadn’t fought as he’d felt Tony’s arms come around him, checking his pulse, his head and finally, tenderly, retaking his hand to examine it. “FRIDAY, gimme a quick damage report on my kid would you, girl?”

 _My kid_.

“It appears Peter has suffered a damaged hand, Boss, and several cuts to his face and arms. He also appears to have very mild concussion symptoms.” She paused. “The concussion is an earlier occurrence. It’s only symptomatic, now.”

“Only symptomatic—FRI, what the Hell are you saying? How did he get a concussion?”

“Tony,” came Bruce’s voice from a little further away. “I’m gonna take Harley down to the medbay and have Helen stitch this cut. Are you OK tak-”

FRIDAY interrupted the good doctor. “Boss. Miss Potts is on the line.”

Peter reached with his good hand. He could hear Tony’s heartbeat; he could hear it beating faster with every interruption to his tending. Something ached inside of Peter at it, wanting to soothe it, wanting to show he was fine – that he _would_ be fine. He felt rough hands take his and grip tight, squeeze it. Peter responded, pushing into the weight. Tony let out a long sigh when something shut – the door. The door shut – and he reached to pull Peter closer, to cradle both hands in his larger ones, holding them with care. “Oh, Pete, you’re giving me grey hairs, kid,” he murmured, and Peter felt the warmth of their foreheads touch. Tony let out another shaky breath and then sat up. “FRIDAY, patch Pep through the speakers if they aren’t kaput.”

“Yes, I understand, Mr. Wells, but—Ah!—Tony? Tony? What’s happened? Tony? Is Peter OK? Is Harley OK? What happened?”

“Minor lab explosion, Pep. Harley’s fine. Peter’s...” Tony trailed off, and though Peter’s body had already gone into fast-track recovery, he could barely hear the older man; whether it was his own ears, with the tinny ringing, or if it was because Tony Stark was being quiet for once was inconclusive and would need a lot more testing. “Peter took a hit. We’re sorting it – aren’t we, Pete?”

“Yeah, Mr. Stark,” Peter managed, just, gasping in a breath he hadn’t realised he needed. Oxygen was a good thing; that helped the healing process. He had to breathe. He should learn how to breathe better. “I-I’m – I’m getting there.”

“You’re winded, Pete. Save your breath.” Tony set down Peter’s good hand and gently combed his fingers through Peter’s hair, picking out a piece of scrap metal with a wince. “Jeez. I can’t leave you two alone for an hour, can I? You’ll send me to an early grave.”

That felt like a punch to the heart. Peter gasped in another few breaths and shook his head against Tony’s thigh. “No. No-not a good idea... Mr. Stark.” He coughed.

“Tony, I know this is an awful time but I really need you back here,” came Pepper’s voice from the ceiling. Peter tried to tighten his hold, but his fingers were broken. From previous experience, fingers were an absolute bitch; all the little nerves and the little bones – so fragile – trying to mend themselves. Ugh. And not to mention that time he’d had to re-break three which fixed themselves wrong. He never wanted to go through that again.

“Uh, yeah. Not gonna happen.” Tony settled Peter’s broken hand on a cleared piece of floor and then squeezed his shoulder. “All I was doing was sitting there, anyway, Pep. If the Board want the company owner there just to compare figures, then we need a new Board with more than half a brain cell between ‘em. You could get on that.”

“Tony-”

“Pep. I get it. I love you. You’re doing a great job, honey.” Tony’s hands flattened over Peter’s ears; the ringing kept going, as did the tininess, but now Tony’s voice was even more distant. He stretched his hearing capabilities, even in his recovery state, and tried to hear exactly what the older man was saying as he blinked up at him, eyes unfocused and everything a little blurry. But he heard it, what Tony said: “Right now, I’ve gotta take care of my son.”

Peter really didn’t know how to feel about that – on the one hand, he felt warm; that could be his recovery, of course, but he wasn’t usually that good at thermo-regulating. But this warmth was different; it was the sort of warmth he remembered from when Uncle Ben ( _he’s not really your uncle, because Richard Parker was never really your father—but do you mind? Do you mind Richard Parker was not your father?_ ) used to ruffle his hair and they got ice cream and walked around Queens. It was the sort of warmth Aunt May ( _you have no connection to her, Peter. She was never really your aunt. She died, and left New York. She’s buried in a tiny churchyard forty miles from Milan. She never bought a gravestone. There’s no marker. You’ll never find her again—but do you really want to?_ ) had given him with her hugs, and her attempts at cooking, and her patience—God, her patience.

It was the kind of warmth he’d felt a lot more of since eight months ago; the kind of warmth he got from chatting science with Bruce; the warmth he got from joke-arguing with Harley; the warmth he got from training with Natasha; cooking with Steve; driving with Happy; playing video games with Clint; having his cheek patted by Pepper. It was the warmth which surrounded all of Tony when he was in Peter’s presence—with a hand on his shoulder, leading him through a sun-drenched hallway. It was the warmth Peter heard and felt and lived for when he heard Tony Stark call him ‘ _son_ ’.

 _Take care of me, dad. Please, take care of me_ , thought Peter when the silence around them both got comfortable, with Tony’s fingers drifting through his hair and his voice talking him through the first minutes of recovery.

Peter would not go on to remember the thought.

###### 

Peter looked from his bandaged fingers to the drawers with his tee-shirts. He wanted something comfortable for the field trip, something unrestrictive, but something a little—a little more upmarket. Not a suit (God, no), but a nice tee-shirt, and a nice jacket. He couldn’t wear the same jeans after yesterday’s incidents at school and in the lab, unfortunately, they were ripped something awful and now resigned to being _lab jeans_. Nearly all of Tony’s jeans were _lab jeans_ , so Peter didn’t really mind having a pair.

Wearing in a new pair... wouldn’t be pleasant, but it was all Peter could do. He folded himself into them, did up the zip and stretched the fabric this way and that, dropping into a squat a few times to check the stitching. They held up pretty well and still gave him movement. Yeah. He could work with that.

The chill in his bedroom was quickly dispersed by FRIDAY automatically turning on the heating and Peter finding an undershirt to wear, pulling it over his head and tucking it into his jeans. A few moments later, he found a tee-shirt – one of his science puns, and a recent addition to the collection. It clung a little around the neck, but it- Peter turned to the mirror and gave himself a once over. It looked _fine_. Why was he worrying about this? The Tower knew his dress sense wasn’t exactly pristine.

With that thought bouncing around his head like a screensaver, Peter grabbed the nearest jacket – tossed on a chair last night – and shoved it under his arm. He put on his watch, grabbed his phone, and didn’t bother with a backpack. Just as he was about to head down the hall to breakfast (which smelled amazing—who the hell was cooking?), Peter picked up the field trip packet and his usual badge. Much like every other Level 0, he didn’t strictly need it; his biometrics were stored in FRIDAY’s system, but it helped other people not feel uncomfortable—of course, they did anyway because the badge was black and had a big nought in the corner and said **STARK** in big bold red lettering across the centre, but that’s not the point. It was a badge. The Tower _liked_ badges.

(Plus, he was taking it because the likelihood of Happy authorising another badge which wouldn’t even be necessary was remote and Peter didn’t want the hassle.)

Peter stretched as he walked down the hall, hauling his jacket along. He shoved it over the sofa and continued into the kitchen where, he was shortly surprised, to see Steve and Bucky at the counter, with Bruce sipping a milky coffee at the table while he worked on a Starkpad. “Uh,” said Peter, and all three turned to look at him. “Good morning?”

“Morning, Peter,” said Steve, turning immediately back to the cooking. “Coffee in the machine.”

“Uh, thank you?” Peter replied, eyebrow raised at Bruce who, curiously, would not look at him. He walked casually across to the coffee machine and put his red-and-black cup (which proclaimed loud and proud: _numero uno spider-kid_ in all lower case, and Comic Sans – because humour in the Tower was stuck back in the 00’s) on to the tray and pressed a button; it lit up in a happy array of colour (as if to say _’yay, I am very useful!’_ ) before dispensing coffee into his cup. The familiar sound of it lulled the tense hitch in his shoulders, and he crossed his arms with a full-body sigh.

“Looking forward to today?” came a soft-voiced Bucky. Peter turned to him; he was leaning against the counter and stirring something on the hob, shifting his stare between Steve and Bruce.

“No?” Peter replied, cocking his head. “Haven’t I made that clear enough? I’m taking a field trip around my workplace – and my _home_.”

“That’s a big word,” said Bruce immediately, popping off his glasses; his hand, gripping a grey-white stylus, continued working across his Starkpad. “Are you- are you meeting them here, or-or are you going to actually go on the bus with your class?”

“Bus,” Peter replied, turning to his coffee. He grabbed the milk out of the fridge. “My teacher will probably think it’s weird if I’m already here...”

Steve let out a chuckle, piling eggs on to Peter’s plate. “Seems a waste of time.”

“It’s a waste of time that I’ve got to be there, anyway.” Peter set his coffee down and then went to take the plate Steve was holding out to him, giving back a polite smile despite the itchiness under his skin at the Captain’s show-offish tendencies. “I know exactly what’s going to happen, too.”

There was a shift in the room, when Peter sat down after the proclamation. He took a long slug of coffee, wiped his mouth on his hand and looked around at them. “What?”

“What do you mean?” asked Bruce. “You know what’s going to happen?”

“I’ve seen OFA tours,” Peter corrected, and another change happened around him; everything calmed down. The high tension fled out of the three men. “I usually _speak on them_.” He dug into his breakfast.

“Oh.” Bruce thumped down his cup. “That’s... not good. Wait- yes. I remember. You’re usually called down especially, even! Oh, wow, that’ll take some explaining... I can’t think Harley would be a good replacement for that.” He shot Steve a look, working his stylus harder over the screen. “Well, maybe they’ll bring down an older intern.”

Peter shifted in his chair, swallowing. “Yeah. Let’s hope. But that’s not the worst part.” He twiddled his fork. “Wherever I walk in this place, someone knows me. And they always want my help – which is great; I-I love being able to help – but today? As soon as I step into R&D—I mean, c’mon, Tony has to pull me out of there on school-”

Bruce shot his stylus across the table and turned to Peter sharply.

Bucky knocked his wooden spoon out of the pot and on to his shoes, turning in a flash to stare at Peter open-mouthed.

Steve calmly turned. “Tony,” he said, in that exhaustedly breathy way, but with a lilt today – something uplifted, something quietly hopeful. Something almost kind. He even laughed, and it was soft, his broad shoulders dropping back around to focus on turning off the stove. “Well. That’s new.”

Peter took Bruce’s stylus and held it out. “Uh. I meant _Mr. Stark_.”

“Oh, my God. I can’t believe it – you actually just said _Tony_ ,” Bruce laughed, taking back his stylus and ignoring Peter’s words completely. “And he’s not even here to hear it!”

“That’s a point I meant to ask: Where is... he?” Peter asked, with a gap between certain words as he fumbled, caught out, a fierce blush beginning to colour his cheeks.

“He had something important to do,” said Bucky, picking up the spoon. He breezed across to the sink and began to wash it, ripping off a piece of kitchen roll to wipe off the dampness. “Something legal, and a meeting. Nought to do with the Accords though, thankfully.” Bucky inhaled and let it out. Before Peter could ask, the acclaimed Winter Solider added, “Harley’s in R&D. Miss Potts is working.”

“Oh.” Peter’s shoulders dropped, and his face fell into a frown. He finished breakfast without acknowledging he had, setting down the cutlery with a bemused blink. “Well, then I guess I should leave for school – well, for the field trip... I don’t wanna bother Pepper, and I’d never get out of R&D at this time of the day... Just thought I’d, uh... Never mind.” He stood up, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“Peter,” said Bruce, looking up as Steve placed a bowl of rice on to the table in front of him. He cracked an egg into it. “Tony wanted to be here to see you off—it was just a really last minute meeting, and after the accident last night he didn’t want to wake you before your alarm. How are your fingers? Can I see them?”

“I plastered them,” Peter told him, holding out the hand for Bruce to take. He winced when the man took them and pressed into them. “My healing factor’s taken pretty good care of it, but...”

“Bones look like they’ve reset well,” Bruce murmured, dropping the hand and turning his attention to breakfast. “I hope you have a good time, Peter. I’ll probably see, uh, see you at some point.”

Peter paled at the thought, flicking his eyes to Bucky and Steve – who were unconsciously (consciously?) not looking at him. “OK. Well. Great – great, yeah. I-I should go, then.” He grabbed his phone out and sent a text to Happy. “See you guys later.” Peter waved, heard a few half-hearted mutters in response, and went to collect the packet, his badge and the jacket. He threw it on, corrected the hood and stepped into the elevator as his phone let out the classic car _beep-beep_ he’d assigned Happy just recently after discovering the feature on the phone:

 **Hapster** : Whatever you do, don’t go near reception.  
**Pete** : ? Why?  
**Pete** : Happy? Whats going on?  
**Pete** : I have to go through reception to get to the car? Cuz motor’s closed atm?  
**Hapster** : It’s open especially. Floor A1. I’ve got the car parked there. I’ll explain.

###### 

As soon as Peter got into the car, visibly shaken and already getting his phone out, Happy had tried to tell him, to explain, and Peter had laughed and replied, “Yeah, I didn’t go near reception but I met her in the hallway with Tony anyway.”

For a moment, Happy hadn’t responded; he’d just taken the information in and stared at Peter in the rear-view mirror. “Tony.” He was smiling, just, obviously trying to hide it. It vanished suddenly though. “What do you mean; you met ‘er in the hallway? You met _Maria Rosendale_ in the hallway?”

“Yes. Tony... introduced me – to her.”

A pause. “Well shit,” Happy replied, pulling out into traffic.

 _Well shit, indeed_. Peter pulled out his phone.

 **ZEE AWESOME GROUP CHAT** ( _GuyInTheChair, MJ, Spidey_ )  
**Spidey** : well shit  
**GuyInTheChair** : OOH FIELD TRIP DAY are you excited peter? U better let me have a private tour when i get back!!!!  
**Spidey** : well I would be if it wasn’t to my house lol  
**Spidey** : sure ned i’ll set something up IF my life doesnt end today  
**MJ** : Cheer up, loser. What else is wrong?  
**Spidey** : I walked into rosendale’s chest  
**GuyInTheChair** : well shit  
**Spidey** : not the worst part  
**Spidey** : Tony was there  
**MJ** : Tony?  
**GuyInTheChair** : holy shit tony!!!!  
**Spidey** : and he introduced me as  
**Spidey** : guys that’s not the big deal ok  
**Spidey** : he introduced me as hiS SON  
**Spidey** : I dont think he meant to cuz he tried to bactrk  
**Spidey** : backtrack* dammit new york traffic is shit today  
**Spidey** : guys i’m screwed. I have to be on a field trip in an hour n rosendale is tagging along with it n now she knows who i am wtf do i do  
**GuyInTheChair** : whoa okay rosendale is the biggest media grabber in eternity. Your screwed peter lmfao  
**MJ** : Maybe she won’t recognise you? But, yeah, you’re screwed, loser. She’ll definitely make it a point of her visit to mention she met Tony Stark’s son. Maybe not during the field trip, but to the press afterwards definitely  
**Spidey** : well that’s done. I’m done. Screwed is screwed. I’m Tony Stark’s fucking son. Wtf do i do now?  
**GuyInTheChair** : own it  
**GuyInTheChair** : no seriously. Your Tony Stark’s fucking son, peter. U might as well own it

###### 

Peter sprinted the last block. It got most of the jitters out of his system, a good run, and when he arrived at school he wasn’t even the last there, so Mr. Harrington had no reason to get pissy at him—which was a blessed relief for a short while; this whole day was only going to get worse—and how could it even get worse? What else could happen? How much more could go wrong? Damn, why weren’t Ned and MJ here?

He put on the appearance of breathlessness as he got closer, tucking his head against his chest as the sounds of the other students reached his sensitive ears. Peter pressed onwards to where Mr. Dell was standing with a register and made himself known to the teacher. “Hey, Mr. Dell.”

“Peter, hi. Got your packet, I see. Good, good. Did ya have a chance to read through the guidelines and such?” Mr. Dell tapped his pen over the register, making a quick dot in the margins to indicate Peter’s arrival.

“I did, Sir,” Peter replied, putting on the best smile he could. He chose not to make the obvious comment about knowing them already, turning to the steps. “Wait there, right?” Behind him, a bus pulled up.

“Yeah, good. We’re just waiting on a few others—Roger’s just coming.” Mr. Dell started humming something beneath his breath, content to pop over and see the bus-driver and wave the last few students along.

Peter rubbed the folder between his fingers, looking from the bus to the steps. He glanced at his watch; it seemed a little pointless to go and sit down now, when they were about to leave.

“Nice jacket, Parker!”

Peter turned his head just, his chest doing something a little weird at hearing his name. He looked at Flash, blinking, and Charles beside him with a self-satisfied smirk and a raised eyebrow. A few of the others – along with a couple of Mr. Dell’s students – started to look.

 _So, this is how it gets worse_ , thought Peter, moving to the edge of the stairs. He shoved the packet on to the side and tore the jacket off, catching the flash of—Oh, no. He turned the jacket, slowly, so the back faced him and, to his horror, discovered he’d grabbed his Stark Industries hoodie. The recognisable logo hit him like a ton of bricks, staring him in the face. He quickly turned it back around and checked the front with frantic panic and—Oh, _shit_. It wasn’t even his.

There, patterned in gold and red, was the clean and precise and very well-known name of _Tony Stark_.

Peter resisted the urge to throw himself backwards and slam his head on the pavement. Why hadn’t Tony said anything? Or Happy? God, was _this_ why Tony had basically gestured at him and said, “ _Yeah, this is my son_.” Because wearing this jacket and not saying anything would indicate something very different all things considered. Dammit. Dammit. _Dammit_.

He threw a glance toward the other end of the stairs, but only Flash and Charles were looking at him with sidelong smirks at one another. Peter reasoned with himself that they’d only seen the back and not the front, because he hadn’t really turned to them—at least not enough for the name to stand out. It just looked like a normal SI hoodie—all the interns were gifted them, after all; in fact, Peter had his own somewhere, too, with his name on it stitched in Spider-Man’s red and blue. Subtleties.

So what if he liked wearing Tony’s jacket? And maybe commandeered it every so often? It was comfy. And it smelled of machine oil, and clean metal and something burnt and something very Tony; something like sandalwood and citrus and—

It took Peter a moment to realise he’d brought it to his nose, and was breathing in and out slowly, trying to refocus, to draw his head out from the darkness it was spiralling in to. Today was already a mess, and now he was wearing Tony Stark’s official hoodie.

“Hey! Everyone here!” Mr. Dell called. “Why don’t you all get on the bus?—I’m gonna pop in and find Mr. Harrington so we can get going to Stark Industries—oh, this is gonna be great.”

There was a bit of shuffling, but it was clear everyone was excited about getting to SI. Peter barely had a moment to grab his packet (why did he bring this shit? He had to bloody carry it, now) and sweep the jacket under his arm and join the line before Mr. Dell was at the door, going in, and backing out as Mr. Harrington appeared on the other side of it. He took the register and checked it over quickly, raising his glasses and squinting. Peter hopped on the bus and found a seat – thankfully alone; he would have sat next to Ned or MJ, but...

He had to get his head out of that. Peter folded the jacket in his lap, making sure nothing was on show, and checked his phone. No new texts – nothing; not a word from Tony to explain anything, and no encouragement from anyone else. Peter flicked his finger over to _Zee Awesome Group Chat_ and stared at the last message from Ned:

 **GuyInTheChair** : no seriously. Your Tony Stark’s fucking son peter. U might as well own it

Peter dropped his head back against the bar and shut his eyes with a long, drained-out sigh. What had he done to deserve this life? The bus started up a few minutes later and Mr. Dell and Mr. Harrington came on, the doors shutting behind them as they took their seats near the front. “So, is everyone ready for a great field trip?” Mr. Harrington called back through the bus, holding the register.

A chorus of excitement shot straight back at him, but Peter stayed quiet, turning to put his forehead against the window in defeat. He heard Flash, then, a cruel mutter beneath his breath: “You’re dead, Parker. Today, all your lies unfurl and they’ll see you for the sad little shit you are.”

Peter kept out of the general discussions as they crawled through New York in the characteristic yellow bus. A couple cars dodged out of the way for them, but fewer and fewer did as they closed in on the Tower; more and more people started looking official and business, more and more looking harried and work-absorbed, more and more holding Stark-branded tech as they sipped from overtopped mugs outside coffee establishments and unconsciously ate their way through pastries and cake while in pursuit of their next big _something_.

Peter had done it himself on the weekend. He’d sat in a coffee shop so notorious for SI employees they just gave everyone a discount, and worked on correcting a document Pepper had sent through about an engineering project for the fall. The coffee had been oversweet until it mellowed and he asked if he could get another shot for a kick of energy, but he quite liked it and the staff were pleasant and not intrusive. He wanted to take Harley there, and Ned (Ned would probably kill to be given a chance), and maybe even MJ. She’d fit right in, especially if she wanted some crisis expressions to sketch. Half of the people in there always looked a door-slam from death with how hard they were concentrating.

He broke out of his reverie when his phone gave a disturbing _pip-pip_ against his thigh. Peter picked it up and brushed his thumb down the sensor on the back, before unlocking it. The new message popped up immediately:

 **Pepper** : I hope your field trip goes well today, Peter. Have they given you an itinerary? I figure you should have it, so you can prepare yourself for the eventualities of the day. _Download attached_.

Now, contrary to the popular belief of Happy, Peter could actually text rather well all things considered. He did fall into habits like everyone else, but he never chanced anything with Miss Pepper Potts; she necessitated at least semi-good grammar and coherence. He downloaded the sheet and then replied back.

 **Peter** : Thank you, Pepper. That’s very kind of you, although I don’t think I could ever fully prepare for today.  
**Pepper** : I’m sorry, Peter. Feel absolutely free with how you want today to go, all right? It’s very much your choice how you play everything—but I will warn you I can’t account for the actions of certain people.

“The Avengers,” Peter muttered, dropping his hand on to the jacket. He brought it closer to him instinctively. Not only did he have to worry about Captain America showing up and making some impromptu speech, he also had to worry about the variables: Clint was still around, as far as Peter knew. Natasha – or, respectfully, Black Widow – would no doubt be keeping an eye on him throughout the day, especially with how Peter had recently been acting. Bruce and Harley could either show up or stay out of it all together (hopefully the latter). Bucky was around; Falcon was arriving today; Rhodey was somewhere (although he usually stuck his head in paperwork and kept it there for a few hours, at least). At least Wakanda was busily inserting themselves into global politics. Captain Marvel was off-world; so was Thor; so were those space weirdos who’d almost shot him on Titan. No problem there.

Wanda was—well, she wasn’t usually an issue. Usually being the operative word, because usually meant any time except today and the weekend thereafter. Peter wasn’t sure when she was arriving but, much like Falcon, she was good at timing it for lunch.

Honestly, Peter wasn’t worried about any of them as much as he probably should be (especially Clint). Most of his headspace was taken up by only two men – both somewhat human, both very intelligent, both very argumentative – who could, in theory, completely and utterly destroy him: Mr. Tony Stark and Dr. Stephen Strange (lovingly known as The Wizard, in Tony’s vocab).

He shouldn’t dread it, but any time both of them were in a room together they always ended up arguing for at least a minute and Peter would casually interject and then he’d be brought in as a pawn. It didn’t get tiring as such; it never could because it was, honestly, much too funny. But it got embarrassing, and today Peter would be dealing with enough of that for the rest of his life.

His phone _ding_ ed:

 **Mr.Stark** : Hey, Pete. I’m sorry about before. I’ve had Rosendale sign an NDA regarding you, but I don’t know how much it’ll help. Bitch with a bone

Peter snorted. Once again, despite what Happy thought about Peter and his grammar these days, he never so-much as used text-speak with – well, with Tony (he quickly changed the contact name, taking a deep breath on confirming it). It just seemed bad manners, and if he _had to_ , then it was because something was really wrong and that would easily get across the urgency of the situation.

He replied back:

 **Pete** : Dog with a bone. If she goes against the NDA, can’t you just sue her?  
**Tony** : Holy shinoodle kid. When did you get so evil?  
**Pete** : I learn from the best

It took a few minutes of Peter watching an old lady toddle down the street faster than the bus was going before he got another text—also from Tony:

 **Tony** : Kid, I hope the field trip goes well today. I can’t promise you won’t see any of us, though. Did Pep forward you a schedule?

Oh, shit. That. Peter mentally noted to check it out. His phone buzzed in his hand again, another text coming through:

 **Tony** : Listen, Pete, I don’t do well at sentimental stuff. I tend to hoard it all until I break. I don’t want you doing that. I know you’re under a helluva lot of stress at the moment, and some of that’s my fault  
**Tony** : We probably should have a chat at some point, if you’re up for it. There are a few things we need to talk about, but don’t worry about it, OK? It’s all pretty good stuff. Have as good a time as you can today  
**Tony** : Just ask FRIDAY if you need anything. She’ll notify me if there are ANY problems, and that includes ones she sees and you don’t report

Peter smiled at the rolling texts, knowing Tony was probably speaking them quickly into his microphone as he went through various rooms or departments in the Tower, tracking down the odds and ends of his business. Maybe finalising something, maybe chasing someone down for answers, maybe ignoring a meeting and bunking off to play _Minecraft_ in the lab.

 **Tony** : I’m really proud of you, Pete

Peter couldn’t stop the smile when he read those words, letting out a long, pleased breath before his thought process was rudely interrupted by Mr. Harrington. “Mister Parker.” The teacher was beside him, looking down at him with wide eyes; a hint of concern dotted in them. “Cindy mentioned you had bandages on, but I never expected—what on earth happened to your hand?”

“Explosion at the lab,” Peter replied on the beat, not prepared to have his good mood sullied by the spark of irritation in Mr. Harrington’s eyes. “I’m not meant to hold anything for a while.”

“Well, thank goodness that’s not your writing hand,” Mr. Harrington replied, though he still seemed a little caught up on what Peter said before. “What exploded to cause so much damage?”

“Car engine, Sir,” Peter replied, flicking his eyes back to his phone—the newest Starkphone; the model S8. It wasn’t released for another three months, and nor was the watch with it, which was currently strapped around Peter’s thin wrist. No one had noticed it yet, and he wanted to keep it that way. If no one believed the internship, no one would likely believe he was a tester of Stark products either.

The bus lurched forward suddenly and Peter gripped his phone tighter, pressing himself into the seat. Mr. Harrington stumbled down the hall of the bus, but didn’t fall, and caused a significant amount of laughter as he corrected his glasses and returned to his seat.

“Five minutes!” the bus driver called, seemingly unaware. Most of the bus cheered and started to chat gamely amongst themselves.

Peter didn’t. He fished FRIDAY’s earpiece out of his pocket and rolled it between his fingers, settling the other hand in the folds of Tony’s jacket. He leant into the window, craning his neck slightly, to watch the Tower draw closer and closer. This was it.

###### 

The bus parked up near the entrance, and Peter picked out the sound of the engine as it turned off amongst the noise of New York. He stood up beneath the pressure of the day mounting on his slim shoulders, feeling the stretch of his tee-shirt over his skin like a burn. His sensitivity had jumped as they drew closer, as he inclined his senses to feel the warmth radiating from within his home. The walls had intense soundproofing, and were reinforced with traces of Vibranium to absorb nearly all attacks, and while Peter usually loved how inside it made him feel safe – to feel only the casual hum of the Tower around him in nearly every room – outside all he felt was a distant tremor coursing through him from the silence surrounding the building.

He sucked in a breath and made his way off the bus, clenching the packet. Mr. Harrington and Mr. Dell were reading the rules out loud, but Peter was only half-listening—only half-listening because half of them didn’t apply to him. Like the ‘ _do not run_ ’ rule: If he needed to get to another department on another floor and then anther after that, you could bet your ass he ran.

The ‘ _do not curse/swear_ ’ rule did usually apply, though (FRIDAY was lax on it in intense situations). He’d been caught out on it a couple times, as had quite a few people, but it never got old to hear a recording of Captain America shout, “Language!” A dollar got put into a digital swear jar each time and at the end of the month someone won the whole lot.

Peter smiled at the memory of being there when a particularly hard up intern won it – all six hundred and something bucks. The relief in her face had been palpable. Mr.—Tony had been standing in the corner, undisturbed, with the ghost of a smile. When Peter had looked at him, the man had raised his eyebrows and put a silencing finger to his lips before shrugging out to go back upstairs.

Peter always knew Tony Stark was a great person. He’d discovered long ago he was a _good_ person, too, but those casual reminders—those solid moments—those quiet evenings—those understandings all gave Peter an extra uplift. When, eventually it had to happen; he had to step into the spotlight and render _a lot_ of NDAs worthless, when that moment came Peter knew in his heart he would never, never feel anything but proud to say, “ _Tony Stark is my father_.” But he wasn’t there yet. Baby steps.

“Mister Parker?” Mr. Dell stepped up to him as Mr. Harrington went through a few last minute details; a couple students wanted to leave their stuff on the bus. “D’you want your jacket? Or should we leave it on the bus?”

Peter blinked at him, his hold tightening on the jacket – Tony’s jacket, with Tony’s name, and the smell—and the sentiment. He held it like a child held their blanket. His phone buzzed in his pocket. “No, thank you, Mr. Dell. I-I’m going to wear it, actually; I get cold easily.”

“All right, then! Wait just here.” Mr. Dell trotted back towards the bus.

Peter pulled the Stark Industries jacket on, smoothing two plastered fingers across Tony’s name on the left breast – over the heart – with a growing smile. He inhaled and let it out slowly, correcting the hood with one hand as he pulled out his phone (it buzzed again) and checked who’d texted him:

 **Tony** : I see you, Pete.  
**Tony** : Lookin’ sharp, might I add.  
**Pete** : Thanks. Where are you?  
**Tony** : Look up, Spiderling.

Peter turned his head up, raising his eyes and brows simultaneously. There, standing on the flat platform, was the pinprick of a figure. With Peter’s enhanced senses, even from this far away, his sharp eyesight could pick out the distinguishable features of Tony Stark with one arm raised high into the air, waving.

Very nearly, Peter almost waved back. He couldn’t, not now. There was too such to lose. But he smiled – he hoped Tony had some way of seeing it; a camera, binoculars, FRIDAY. He stared up at Tony, at the Tower – the Stark legacy abound around him, everywhere he looked seeing everything his—everything Tony had built from the ashes, everything he had made, everything he’d promised Peter in the quiet of the night, “This’ll be yours, Pete.” It scared him, thinking back, remembering his head set over the nano-particles and their blessed humming as Tony ran a hand through his hair and thought him asleep. “Yours to continue, to mould and shape. Hall of Fame, son. I can’t wait to see it.”

Peter clenched his phone and let out a well-earned breath, putting on a flat smile. Another message popped up on the screen:

 **Tony** : Knock ‘em dead, kid.


	6. We're born wet and hungry; and then it gets worse.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Oh my!  
> Feels just like I don't try  
> Looks so good I might die  
> All I know is everybody loves me  
> Get down,  
> Swaying to my own sound  
> Flashes in my face now  
> All I know is everybody loves me  
> Everybody loves me"   
>  "Everybody Loves Me - One Republic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _*Throws 11k-worth of chapter at you* ruff_  
> 
> 
> Thank you guys for all the love last chapter ! And all the love in general; you've really helped keep me on the path of this massive chapter ! Buckle up, now, it's quite a whirlwind we're heading into...  
> Hope this is worth all of it, lovelies !
> 
> ###### 
> 
> The awesome [InformalFallacy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InformalFallacy/pseuds/InformalFallacy) has very politely made a TVTropes page for Open For All ! [Click Here!](https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Fanfic/OpenForAll) to go to it :)

“Boss, Peter B. Parker-Stark has entered the building.”

Tony looked up from his workbench, holding his fifth cup of coffee. He’d managed to shake Secretary Rosendale around the second cup, seen Peter standing outside on the dregs of the fourth. A lazy smile came to him immediately. “This kid is gonna kill me.”

“I have not found any evidence to suggest Peter would want to harm you, Boss,” replied FRIDAY, never missing a beat. “In fact, I would remark he has shown great love for you recently.”

Tony leant back against the table and turned a glare on a sniggering Bruce who’d looked up with an eclipsing smile. “It’s a figure of speech, FRI,” Tony replied, giving Bruce the finger. “Shouldn’t you be in a lab somewhere ready to meet an overexcited bunch of kids?”

“The only one whose excitement matters to me is Peter’s, Tony,” Bruce responded (“Right answer.” Tony winked), moving to gather up a few supplies. “But you’re right. My name’s on the list Pepper forwarded, so I should probably show up at least.”

“I’m sure we all will at some point.” Tony turned back to the workbench, bringing up a schematic of Peter’s suit as Bruce left. He wanted to adjust the modelling a little, and the kid had mentioned it chaffed a bit in a sensitive area. “FRI, keep me updated on Peter.”

“I will, Boss. You might also like to know Dr. Stephen Strange is in your living room.”

Tony looked up, setting aside his coffee. “What’s he doing?”

“He has made himself a cup of tea and is currently going through your bookcase, Boss.”

“Tell ‘im to knock it off, FRI.”

A pause. Then, “His reply is-” FRIDAY’s voice dropped away, replaced by Stephen’s; the chalky, almost flirty quality of his two-tone accent smoothed through the speakers: “Get up here and maybe I will, Stark.”

Tony raised his eyebrows and his lips parted slightly, sucking in a short breath before letting his expression flatten into the hint of a smirk. “Damn,” Tony breathed, stretching his back in an arch. “And just when I thought I’d get some work done.” He swept his hand through the air, disabling the schematic from view. “Lock SM6, FRIDAY. Atta girl. Great. Time to go see the Wizard.”

###### 

Peter never got tired of the Stark Industries reception. It was bigger on the inside than the building conveyed from the outside, which he hadn’t gotten Tony to admit yet was because of his love for _Doctor Who_. They’d get there.

The greyscale colour scheme, with only the tiniest hint of glaring white in the furniture, softened Peter’s senses, soothing through him like the off-colour bed-sheets he’d had before they’d been switched out for his iconic and dapper red-and-blue. As his class filtered in around him and gasped in awe at the high ceiling and clean interior, Peter shut his eyes and breathed in the smell of the working building. Usually, the reception hall was a vast array of familiar smells from all the departments in the building, and then there was pine; typically, the combination overwhelmed everyone’s personal colognes and perfumes.

But he should have known better—nothing was usual or typical today. Nothing was what he’d known, and everything was changing around him. Peter sucked in another breath and immediately regretted it as the bitterness swamped his tongue. He forced himself to swallow and gasped out, pressing his breathlessness into a cough. _Where the hell is it coming from?_

“All right!” Mr. Harrington pushed through and turned to the students. Mr. Dell followed him, but the man looked far more interested in their surroundings, turning on the spot to take it all in. “Julius,” Mr. Harrington coughed, gaining the other’s straying attention begrudgingly. “Anyway! Here-here we are! An—and there we are!” Mr. Harrington pivoted around and began walking with purpose towards a young man leaning against the reception desk, his head ducked and looking at his phone. Peter turned towards him.

He was politely dressed in OFA tour guide-standard wear; the hideous red waistcoat differing from the more casual jackets SI’s tour guides wore, and making him standout like a sore thumb. Peter’s eyes strayed to his platinum-blonde hair, combed back quickly and held down by a black headband, but a few curls had worked themselves loose and were starting to form a mangled halo under the soft lighting. As he looked up at Mr. Harrington’s approach, his face showed a soft chubbiness, looking for all the world quite relaxed as he slid his phone into a pocket and then picked up a _Midtown High School_ sign from beside him, tapping his fingers across the surface with a split-second glance at his watch—which, Peter amused himself, was possibly the least patient way he’d ever seen – and he’d seen Tony and Pepper’s near-frantic attempts to get across to people they were _late_.

Mr. Harrington grabbed out a piece of paper and handed it over, gesturing, and then the tour guide was nodding and grabbing a plastic box from the chair to his left. Mr. Harrington led the way, and Peter felt the hair rise on his arms—not in the classic alarm, but in intriguing awareness. As the guide got closer, a swagger in his long stride, his eyes – behind thick-rimmed spectacles – roamed across the gathered school group, paying particular attention to a few as he came to a feet-together stop. One of the few he closely stared at was Peter.

Because of course it would be.

But that was all right with Peter—after all, he was staring at him, too. Peter dragged his bottom teeth across his top lip to relieve a slight scratch and waited as their tour guide cleared his throat and began to speak, “Hello, everybody!” His pitch was high, British, welcoming; clearly, he’d done this plenty of times before. “I’m Martyn! Your OFA tour guide—so, hey, lemme be the first to welcome you kids into Stark Industries! We’ve got a great day planned for you, filled to the absolute brim with lab content, Q&A sessions, a killer lunch, and some hands-on stuff, too, to get you guys invested into the _real_ possibility one day you could be working in this place! Wouldn’t that be great? It’s like the _Disney_ of the tech world; everyone with even the slightest interest wants to work here!”

Peter had to hand it to Martyn in that instant; he was openly excited and keyed in, his eyes darting from face-to-face-to-face. Peter tried a short smile, an interested smile, but nothing outwardly enthusiastic yet. It was much too soon for that—and Martyn _was_ holding that box, and it was rattling in the very way only a box full of SI-branded badges rattled. Peter’s heart dropped at the thought. _Right. OK. The first moment of embarrassment_. Or the first moment of his classmates and teachers finding new respect for him, but with his own brand of luck these days he knew the likelihood was close to zero on that currently. As Martyn began to explain SI’s rules (really, again?), and everyone but Peter hung on them like a lifeline, Peter sought out his own badge in the pocket of the hoodie and held it securely in the palm of one hand, ready to attach it in a minute.

He grabbed out one of his earbuds at the same time: the next issue would be FRIDAY announcing him, after all. He couldn’t have that; not after – well, Peter still hadn’t come to terms with what he’d done yesterday in the elevator. Tony hadn’t mentioned anything either—not that Peter had had the ability to hold much of a conversation last night. Come to think of it, how had Tony’s hoodie gotten into his bedroom anyway? The thought of the man wrapping Peter in it for comfort and security briefly entered his head before he flattened those possibilities and refocused on the odd tension settling in his gut. Had he done something wrong by changing his name in FRIDAY’s database to include the hyphenated –Stark? It had been a charge of impulsiveness, a moment when the sudden thought of being _without_ it had scared him more than the thought of being _with_ it. What did that make him?

Everyone else had been put in the ‘handle’ category automatically – including Pepper and Harley. Peter flinched. Should he have put himself there, too? Was Mr. Stark testing him? But... he’d said the ‘son’ word. Peter heard it, heard the concern and the pain and surroundings of love wrapped up with a bow on top.

Maybe they really did need to have that chat. Peter pulled himself out of the depression he was sinking into and refocused as Martyn finished up the rules and tossed an amused look around the large reception. “So, are there any questions?” he asked, accepting a very uninteresting one from Jason.

Only uninteresting because Peter saw something which _was_ interesting. Across to the left, a few scientists were watching the group with veiled intent—it took a moment for Peter to pick out their faces from his memory: he’d helped them on a project for collapsible first-aid equipment. They were looking through the class and muttering between each other, combing it for any significance and, with a twist of Peter’s gut, they spotted him. Immediately, they raised their arms in a wave. Peter bit his lip. While he realised he couldn’t exactly turn away and ignore them, he couldn’t actually wave back either (like he couldn’t with Tony earlier). The thought paralysed him suddenly with more than just a sweeping realisation—if everyone _knew_ he was in fact _not_ lying about his internship (per say), if he proved Flash and Mr. Harrington wrong and—

It gripped him: if they knew, if they understood—if they connected the dots— It wouldn’t—It _couldn’t_ be long until...

 _No_. His life would – _was likely going to_ – cease to exist as comfortably as it did now; there wouldn’t just be questions, but pressure, and fake people who’d try to get into his life because he’d be reduced to one thing: Tony Stark’s intern. Then, someday, and all at once, he would just be Tony Stark’s _son_. Peter, as he’d witnessed earlier in the week by Ned’s “I’m friends with the heir to Stark Industries” comment, would just be that: the heir to Stark Industries; and have the sole responsibility of the future—of the future Stark brand on his shoulders. He would not be a complex human with issues and needs and a personality. He would be reduced to words, words he’d either have to proclaim and live by like Tony—

_Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist._

Or words he’d have to prove wrong and rebel again, granting him new words. It was so easy to stare into his life and think – fine. Done. You are what you are. You’re Peter B. Parker-Stark. You’re heir to Stark Industries. You’re the son of Iron Man. You’re—

 _Spider-Man_. Peter shut his eyes. How long would it be until that secret was taken away from him, too?

He steeled himself. He couldn’t let anything like this happen—not so soon, not now, not when everything had been going moderately well and he was—he wouldn’t say settling into it, no way, but he was beginning to look at his life and see past the betrayal of his beginning, the failure of his middle and look forward to the light of his future. He’d just started to heal; the wound didn’t need to be reopened so soon.

 _Shitshitshitshitshitshit_. One of the scientists, encouraged by the others, got to his feet and started sauntering towards them. “Peter! Peter!” He was a hulking, balding man with vitiligo. Peter had never seen him frown except for when the they ran out of teabags and then he’d practically burst into tears (from that day on, the department vowed to never run out of teabags ever again). A father to five girls, he was one of the gentlest men Peter had ever met despite his looming size. His name was Brian.

Immediately, Martyn cut off his spiel and turned a curious eye on the approaching scientist. Prim and proper, Martyn looked like an elf compared to Brian. “Can I help you, Sir?”

Brian paused as he got closer, squinting at the tour guide. “Oh, gosh – OFA? Jeezes.” He flapped his wrist dismissively and turned his kind eyes on Peter—and usually Peter would have been grinning to see him. Not today though; today his face had gone ashen from the whirlwind of his head, and the man – being a very attentive father – obviously knew he’d done something he shouldn’t. Quickly, raising his hands, he barked out, “Oh, you know what—uh, wro-wrong guy! Sorry – completely outta my head right now with work!” He turned on his heel and practically jogged back to the other two very confused scientists.

Peter breathed a sigh of relief. Thankfully, it seemed no one had pegged that the _‘Peter! Peter!’_ Brian had called had been referring to one Peter B. Parker.

 _Peter B. Parker-Stark_. Dammit—why was everything changing so fast? How was he meant to feel about this? Where was Ned when you needed some comedy relief? MJ was missing so many opportunities to draw his crisis expressions, too.

“Uh, sorry – that’s not happened before!” Martyn let out a laugh and turned back to the group. He was still chuckling as he allowed the basket to fall easier into a one-handed grip, using the other hand to smooth his curls into a quiff and dislodging the headband even more. “Anyhow. Now that you’re all aware of the rules – and you know I will enforce them, kids – I think it’s high time we start this thing, huh? I’ve got your badges here—and your teacher, Mr. Harringen (“Uh, Harrington,” Mr. Harrington interrupted with an un-amused cough), will read out your names and I'll pass them out, OK? After that, we’ll be heading into a specially prepared lil’ room over there-” Martyn pointed a thin arm over to the left, behind Brian and the other scientists who were trying – very obviously – to make it look as if they _weren’t_ grinning like madmen. “In there is where you’ll be asked to leave any unnecessary belongings, including your phone and-”

“What? My phone?” Flash interrupted loudly, his mouth falling open. “Bu-but my-my life is my phone! My followers, the _Flash Mob_ , I promised them I’d broadcast the tour! They’ll never forgive me!”

Peter crossed his arms and hitched an eyebrow, _Well, that’s needlessly dramatic_ , he thought with a side-long look to Mr. Dell—Mr. Dell’s expression wasn’t all that removed from Peter’s.

Martyn’s nostrils twitched and his mouth levelled into the first frown of the day. “Unfortunately, that’s not allowed. Most of the interns aren’t even allowed their phone. Sorry, but this is a workplace – and quite a bloody sensitive one at that. I mean, _I’m_ not even allowed my phone.” His Britishness came through in the last sentence, his glowed-up eyes turning downy and grey. He suddenly turned a look on the teachers. “You two aren’t allowed yours, either.”

“What?” Mr. Dell wrinkled his nose, stepping forwards. “We weren’t told that—what if one of the kids has an emergency?”

Martyn brightened up immediately and Peter nearly laughed at the Briton’s immediate response at the idea of something exciting, like an _emergency_ , happening. “Ah, I was getting to that, Mr. Dill (“Mr. Dell.”). Thankfully, everywhere we go we will be with someone authorised to use a phone, or so I’ve been told.” He gave a shrug. “I assume the scientists and engineers we’ll be seeing...” He made circles with his wrists, and then returned to his spiel. “Anyway. After you’ve dropped off your stuff, we’ll be meeting the Head of Security and a _very_ special guest!”

“Is it an Avenger?” asked Sally, staring at him with huge, unblinking eyes.

Peter’s mouth slid into a thin line and he resisted the urge to kick the floor—last time he’d done that, Tony had to get someone from construction to fix it. _C’mon. Mr. Harrington told us yesterday Secretary Rosendale was coming with us_ , he thought dismissively, throwing a glance around his classmates.

“Uh, no.” Martyn tried to smile, but it turned too easily into a grimace. “How much do you kids know about the Open For All initiative?”

Betty raised her hand. Martyn gestured for her to speak. “It’s a governmental initiative to bring the classroom to the companies. It sponsors tours of well-known establishments – especially in the STEM sector – to encourage us to pursue a career in industry.”

He gave her a huge grin. “Perfect! All that’s missing is who presides over it...” Martyn raked his eyes over the ‘kids’, as he had so much fun calling them. His eyes landed squarely on Peter. He pointed at him. “You. Kid. Who runs Open For All?”

“The Secretary of Education, Maria Rosendale,” Peter said immediately, his voice tagged with hoarse exhaustion already from the emotional roller coaster he was experiencing and the tour guide himself. Although Martyn had been fun at the beginning, his excitement was already starting to grate on Peter—and if he was going to do that ‘point and answer’ shit, well, Peter already knew today was going to be horrible. He’d... get through it—somehow.

“That’s right,” Martyn replied, nodding, his eyes sticking on Peter a moment longer before shifting to the box in his hands. “So... I know, we’ll come back to the special guest—because I’m sure you all want your _badges_ , right? Badges or special guest, kids?”

“Badges,” Cindy said instantly, the nearest to Martyn, and was echoed by nearly everyone. She grinned like a madwoman at the prospect of SI merch.

“Got it! Badges, sweetheart.” Cindy only looked mildly offended by the tour guide’s use of the endearment. “Badges, indeed! These’ll get you where you need to go, and nowhere else.” Martyn opened the box and casually swept his hand through them. The metal backings clicked against each other. Martyn handed a piece of printer paper off to Mr. Harrington. “The list of the kids, good sir.”

“I see that,” Mr. Harrington muttered, holding the list close to his face. He squinted behind his glasses, and then finally decided to remove them completely. They dangled uselessly between his thumb and index finger. “Right. OK—No alphabetical order... Cindy Moon.”

Peter listened as it went from one unorganised name to the next. Martyn greeted each of them kindly as he handed them their badges and instructed them on how to wear them. “Heard the Head of Security’s a stickler for ‘em, so better make sure they’re visible at all times. I’ll explain the system in a minute or two.” As Mr. Harrington read and then received his own badge in an apparent display of mock-humbleness, Peter took the opportunity to attach his badge. The black badge, with red lining, showed up against the dark blue of the hoodie enough to be obvious to anyone he wasn’t exactly someone who needed to be told where they should or shouldn’t go in the Tower—in fact, nowhere was off-limits to him. He had the run of every department and room, barring some private offices but only for a layer of personal security. Hell, they weren’t even off-limit in reality—he could force an entrance with one word to FRIDAY if he needed to.

Unlike the white guest badges Mr. Harrington, Mr. Dell and his classmates were wearing, Peter’s didn’t even include his name. It didn’t need to. It just said **STARK** in large white-rimmed red letters and had a little ‘0’ in the corner. The badge itself marked him as important, and he was so well-known (even if it was just as ‘Peter’ or ‘Kid’) that even the newest intern knew him the moment he stepped through the door to their department on their first day. It was a little disconcerting sometimes how everyone knew him, but he didn’t know them.

Martyn’s badge, coloured red and with a ‘2’ in the corner, denoted him as either being or acting as a government official.

That was all about to be explained, though, so Peter didn’t bother himself to think about it too hard. Instead, he focused on the matter at hand—which turned out to be ( _shock, horror_ ) Peter’s apparent inclusion on the list, but without a badge to his name.

“Peter Parker,” Mr. Harrington said again, as Martyn rummaged through the box with his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth. Mr. Harrington shot Peter a look, but much too quick a one to notice the badge, turning his attention to helping Martyn dig through the last few badges in the box. “ _Par_ ker.”

“Oh, well... That’s the second thing that’s never happened to me.” Martyn said, although he didn’t sound very confused or nervous by what had happened at all. He swept his hand around the edges in a show of trying, but came up with nothing. Turning to Mr. Harrington, the guide smiled and said, “I’ll go ask reception.”

Peter closed his eyes and took in a long breath. He knew it would happen, of course he knew it would happen—he’d somewhat prepared. The butterflies in his stomach hadn’t though. He opened his mouth to tell them—

Mr. Harrington jolted up suddenly. He twisted around to face Peter head on, a look of gloried satisfaction sitting in his eyes. “Huh. Well, Mr. Parker—you see, this is exactly what _lying_ and _defacing_ your verification card gets you. No badge—and now we’re going to have to sort this out. I can’t believe you’ve intentionally made us _late_.”

Peter’s jaw dropped open at the call-out and he raised his eyebrows towards his glaring teacher. How dumb did that man have to _be_? It wasn’t Peter’s fault he was hurting; it wasn’t Peter’s fault anyone was hurting—and he certainly didn’t deserve them taking it out on him. Perhaps, if those five years hadn’t been lost, he would have realised it sooner somehow—or maybe not at all. Maybe he’d still harbour the same insecurity of his identity—maybe he’d be content being puny Peter Parker, being mowed down constantly and going into adulthood contemplating every sure thought in his brain. Maybe he’d don the suit every so often and think he could be different, be more, but then he’d go back to being Peter Parker.

Except he wasn’t just Peter Parker anymore--he'd _never been_ just Peter Parker. The thought plagued him.

Peter swallowed the nervousness and stepped out from the rest of his classmates. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Flash start, his eyes bugging as, finally, someone took notice of the very professional, very official-looking SI badge on Peter’s borrowed jacket. “Mr. Harrington,” said Peter, gathering some of Spider-Man’s confidence, the Stark’s own-brand of sass and that assured Parker resilience. He pressed his shoulders back and gestured with his bandaged fingers at the badge sitting to the right of Tony Stark's embroidered name. “Sir, I’ve told you this entire time – I have a badge. I’m... an intern. It would be a security concern if another badge was printed for me.”

Martyn, who’d been about to pop over to the reception when his eyes had caught on it himself, gave an alarmed hum. His eyes coloured in real recognition suddenly, looking from the badge to Peter’s face like he was looking at someone he _knew_. The Brit coughed a cuss into his elbow and tensed his fingers on the basket of badges. “You-you have-” _gulp_ “-a badge. OK. That’s...” His voice broke at the end, quickly grabbing another badge out, dropping it, picking it up and carrying on. “Uh—what’s this? Uh. Uh. Eu-Eugene Thompson?”

Flash stormed forwards, pausing momentarily to throw a dirty glare – the wind totally taken from his sails – at Peter, before he snatched the badge from Martyn’s outstretched hand and stalked back into the class. He roughly affixed it to his own jacket.

“Hang on a minute,” Mr. Harrington said, though he ticked off Flash’s name quickly. He turned a look of slit-eyed impatience on Peter, pulling his lips into a scowl. “Mr. Parker. Where did you get that badge?”

Peter licked his lips, his muscles bunching. “Mr. Harrington, I’m an intern-”

“What does it matter?” Martyn bit out under his breath, turning a silencing look on the teacher. He swallowed suddenly and straightened up, his eyes darting from Peter, to Peter’s badge, to the basket. “Mr. Harringgen (“Harring _ton_.”), you can tick Mr. Parker off the list.” His attention turned on the teacher, before moving to Peter, and then back to the teacher again—like he wasn’t sure he was seeing properly, that he needed to constantly confirm Peter and his black badge were there. “I was... There was a mention of a pupil who might have a badge. I just...” Martyn swallowed again. “I wasn’t expecting it to look, uh, I thought I’d understood wrongly, thought...” Martyn’s mouth formed into an ‘o’. “Thought. Anyway! Next on the list, Mr. Herring?”

Mr. Harrington glared daggers at Martyn for taking away the pleasure of knocking Peter down another peg. Peter stepped back into the cluster of his classmates, himself a little confused by the wild look in the tour guide’s eyes. Soon, the moment was placed behind them – though Mr. Dell kept swapping glances with Mr. Harrington, and Flash looked like he was fuming beyond repair – and Martyn regained some of his composure. His quiff, once tamed, had worked its way from the curls of his hair to be much more prominent now. “Well, that’s the badges sorted!” Martyn pulled a clipboard out from the inner lining of his jacket. How he’d kept it there this whole time, Peter wasn’t sure, but was totally prepared to say he was impressed. “Now, I’m sure you’re all wondering just what your badges actually mean – most kids do – and—lemme tell you, Stark Industries probably has one of the most obscene systems, but once you get your head around it, it isn’t too difficult.

“Basically, there are six levels.” Martyn gestured at Mr. Harrington’s badge. “You all – uh, well – most of you have Level 1-White. That’s guests and tour groups. That’s all it is. I, on the other hand, have Level 2-Red.” He pulled his badge forward a little, showing it off, before unclipping it and turning it around. “All see it? Yeah? Good. That means I’m a government man, basically; my creds are on the back—see? There’s also Level 2-White, which is media—so, uh, newspapers, journalists, YouTubers an’ the like.” Martyn glanced at his clipboard. “Level 3 has two colours, too. We’re talking Level 3-Red and –White. That’s interns – again, creds are all on the back of these; that’s why they flip up.” He clipped his badge back on. “Now, Level-4-”

“Peter, you’re an intern.” Charles butted in, jolting around Peter’s side to look at his badge. “Why is yours black, huh? Why’s his black?” Charles turned promptly to Martyn, as if the man had offended his sensibilities.

Peter just wanted to fall through the floor, going from one intense emotion to the next; he knew this would be bad, but he hadn’t actually expected Martyn to go through the badges this extensively—who _cared_? The system was about to be updated anyway because Happy thought it had gotten too complicated.

Martyn cleared his throat, but didn’t answer Charles’s question. Instead, he slid a knowing stare in Peter’s direction, and then across the room, before focusing back on his clipboard. “Level-4 is the standard level for most scientists, engineers and suchlike. It’s not denoted by colour; the creds are on the front. Level-5 is for the managers, heads and executives; again, no colour, just... creds on the front.” He’d lost most of the joy in his accent now, and was simply reading off the board. “Level-6 is reserved for the Avengers—but they’re the Avengers. They don’t wear badges, just carry cards with microchips in ‘em; so the level’s just there for the AI, the wonderful FRIDAY you’ll all get to meet very soon, of the building to manage.”

“Yeah, but what about Pen—uh, what about Parker?” asked Flash, firmly settled into his foul mood. Mr. Harrington looked dead keen on knowing, too, biting his lower lip hard.

Martyn put the clipboard under his arm and looked from Flash to Mr. Harrington, and then to Peter. Peter caught his eye and they stared at one another. “Peter,” said Martyn, his voice quiet and knowledgeable, dropping their eye contact. “Is Level-0. Level-0s have, basically, access-all-areas. He can go anywhere he wants in this or any other Stark building.” He looked up, something about his voice very blunt and very conclusive. There was nothing else he was allowed to say, and Peter knew that. Martyn finished, “I have no clue who he is or what he does or why he has the badge. That’s classified.”

 _Oh, God. Why_. Peter swallowed around the lump in his throat and turned his head toward the doorway, a small part of him wanting to just make a run for it; he could skid down the alleyway and haul himself up the side of the building, go into hiding in his room and face the consequences later.

Except he couldn’t do that.

Martyn regained himself, clearing his throat; he had a smoker’s throat, the way he coughed, and the more Peter concentrated on the tour guide the more he could smell the nicotine. “Now... Yes, of course.” Martyn looked at his handy-dandy clipboard. “Let’s go and drop off our stuff and then we’ll – well, we’ll start the tour.”

+

Peter had only been into the security clearance room twice. He didn’t like it. It was metallic, and the ultra clean smell messed with his senses. He pushed down the nerves threatening to overwhelm him, stepping through the automatic doors after Betty. A few security guards hung about, one in particular holding a small box. Peter raised his eyes from where they’d settled on a dying potted plant and, to his delight and dismay (he couldn’t pick one), found Happy walking quickly towards them. Peter's lips pulled up into a short smile, and then dropped into a frown: Happy was staring at Martyn more than just a little coldly, and now Peter realised the Head of Security was not sauntering over, but walking straight towards them with an urgent swing to his steps which anyone with half a brain cell could interpret to mean, ‘ _do not say a thing while I deal with this_ ’.

So Peter kept his mouth shut.

“Hey. You. Mr. Tour Guide.” Happy interrupted whatever Martyn was currently saying—Peter hadn’t been bothered enough to listen, far too caught up in the drama about to unleash.

Martyn turned, his eyebrows rising. “Mr. Hogan,” he said politely and with an almost familiar undertone, his shoulders dipping under the weight of Happy’s presence. He held out a hand, but dropped it immediately. “Martyn Rennie.”

Peter blinked. _Martyn Rennie?_ Why was that familiar?

Happy flicked his eyes to Peter momentarily, and Martyn seemed to copy the stare, before the Head of Security was turning his attention fully on the tour guide. “Martyn. That’s right. Hey. I’m here to—well, you’ve obviously collected them. I’m here to give a brief security Q&A thing—because apparently that’s something we do for OFA tour groups now.”

“Well, it’s very beneficial – some of these kids might want to go into security, you know,” Martyn chirped. “Anyway. That would be great—wouldn’t it be great, kids? Oh, could you all grab your phones out and pop them in that box please? One second, Mr. Hogan.” Martyn clapped his hands together as he turned, though not fully; as if he didn’t quite trust Happy enough to turn his back on him.

Peter thought, keenly, this tour guide obviously wasn’t as much of an idiot as some of them were. _Why is that name so familiar, though?_

The guard holding the box walked across to the group, taking out a roll of stickers and a sharpie. “You know the drill, right? Name on sticker, sticker on phone, phone in the box.”

As everyone, including Martyn and the teachers, lined up to begrudgingly give their phones over, Happy tapped Peter briefly on the shoulder to grab his attention and then said, “Peter. Not you. You keep your phone.”

A blush immediately rose in Peter’s cheeks. When Martyn had mentioned there’d be someone around with a phone at all times, he’d possibly entertained the idea it _could_ be him, but after a few minutes rejected the idea—but here was Happy Hogan singling him out. He should have known this was coming; the world wanted him dead after all. “Uh, Happy-” Peter tried to reason quickly, but-

“Peter, I’d love for you to be without your phone for six hours – maybe I’d get some peace – but fact is you can’t do that. Boss won’t allow it.” Happy kept his voice low and crossed his arms, staring at Peter with a certain fondness which was definitely visible. “You need the phone in case of emergencies.”

“Uh, emergencies. Right,” Peter replied, nodding. There wasn’t a use arguing about it, and he’d rather not do that in front of his class either. He pocketed his phone.

“Excuse me.” Mr. Harrington suddenly appeared at Peter’s shoulder.

Peter watched Happy’s expression fall, his eyes flicking to the teacher’s badge, and then back to his face. He stared at Mr. Harrington in the way a dog with a full stomach might stare at a bird trying to jump down its throat. “What?” Between Mr. Harrington and Happy, Peter felt the tension buzz between his ears a little much. A headache pressed into his frontal lobe. He ignored it.

“Could you please explain exactly why Mr. Parker is allowed to keep his phone, when I’m not?” Mr. Harrington stuck out his chest a little – something Peter had never honestly seen nor thought the teacher was capable of doing – and bolstered his expression into one of extreme indifference. Peter kept back the giggle threatening to push through his lips and took a small step back, so he could turn away and grin—except, as soon as he made to step away, Mr. Harrington’s hand struck out to take his shoulder and grip it hard. “Peter. Stay there.”

Peter gasped. He jolted out of the foreign touch immediately and took a decisive step towards Happy. The Head of Security, though staring open-mouthed at the action of the teacher, quickly assured Peter’s safety before throwing himself back into the conversation. “Hey! Hey! You do not lay a hand on the kid. You touch him without his permission again and the Boss’ll know about it!” Happy barked, putting his arm in front of Peter. “You might be his teacher, bucko, but trust me when I tell ya the kid comes first around here.” The warning in Happy’s tone might have been stunted, coloured by his accent and marked up in emotion, but it was more than clear.

Why the Hell couldn’t Mr. Harrington understand that?

Mr. Harrington put his hands up, palms out, a disagreeable look in his eyes as the other guards around them took an interest. Of course, Peter knew them all—and they knew him. They were advancing, slowly, ready to put the teacher in his place—Peter had to do something, he realised, as his stomach fell out of him: he needed to actually defend the asshole. “Happy!” Peter tried, jumping in between them again and fluttering his hands about. “Hey, Mr. Harrington only asked a question—”

“Kid, you flinched,” said Happy, his eyes turning downwards, boring straight into Peter’s own. He’d already torn-down Peter’s entire defence of the idiot teacher in two words, but he decided to keep going: “That’s not a good thing to do when it’s a _trusted adult_.” The words sat like gone-off cream in Happy’s mouth, staring at Peter with the look of a man ready to kill if needs be.

And Peter was sure he would, too.

“Uh, yeah, because...” Peter flicked his eyes towards his classmates and Mr. Dell and Martyn, all of whom were staring with rather too much interest. “Of-of what happened yesterday? The, uh...” He gestured with his hands and then immediately drew up the plastered fingers in front of Happy’s face. “I landed with impact, ‘member? My shoulder took the brunt of it.” That’s a lie. That’s the biggest lie he’s told since Natasha asked him if he was OK and he said _I’m fine_ , and that was only yesterday.

“Kid-” Happy tried again.

“Happy,” Peter interrupted, pressing his lips back into a world-worn smile.

Happy clenched his jaw and turned his eyes up to Mr. Harrington, who’d obviously taken offence through the whole thing. _Asshole,_ thought Peter, trying to reign in his anger toward the idiot—because he was an idiot. Peter just had to face the facts in front of him. After all this was over—after this whole day was done, Peter would tell someone. He should have taken action long ago—the very fact he leapt as soon as Mr. Harrington touched him was a huge red flag and Happy wasn’t stupid. Happy would know there was more to this, and he’d tell Tony. Oh, God—he probably didn’t need to. FRIDAY likely already had. _I should have told someone sooner_. But no one else was getting hurt. Peter could handle the hurt and get through it—he’d always done it; he’d always gotten through.

It was only then Peter realised he hated that, he hated how everything since the Blip had just been ‘getting through’. Everyone was ‘getting through it’ all; the Snap, the Blip, the displacements, the replacements, the suicides and murders. Everything since school restarted had been ‘getting through’. Everything since May’s death—‘ _getting through_ ’. He’d ‘gotten through it’ when he went to first live in the Tower. He’d ‘gotten through it’ when the Rogue Avengers had been granted pardons—he’d ‘gotten through it’ when they arrived at the Tower as Peter had been drifting off to sleep watching _Star Wars_ with Tony, when they’d walked in from off the streets with bags and suitcases and settled into domestic living (for the most past), changing the tension of Tower and leaving Peter bed-ridden with headaches for a week. But that’s OK. He’d _gotten through it_.

He’d ‘gotten through it’ when he’d woken up in a cold sweat from a dream about Siberia and Tony bleeding out and Peter there, unable to do a damn thing, as Steve and Bucky stood over them not doing a damn thing—and now they were two floors beneath him, asleep; Captain America and the Winter Soldier: The man who’d attempted to kill Tony and the man who’d killed Maria and Howard Stark (Peter’s _grandparents_. God. Why hadn’t that come to him sooner?) and nearly brought a business empire to heel. He’d ‘gotten through’ that night after FRIDAY alerted Tony and he’d come stumbling in, himself sleepless, and taken Peter in his arms and—

###### 

—Peter raised his head from the pillow, his lip quivering.

Mr. Stark pushed open the door to his bedroom and faltered, hesitating. “FRIDAY, lights at 30%.” He stepped in, holding his signature coffee, his hair unkempt from the quick brush he’d given it with his fingers to make himself look at least slightly presentable in front of Peter. “Kid? You OK?”

“Mr. Stark...”

“FRI said you were crying, Pete—what is it? ‘Nother nightmare?” Mr. Stark shut the door and walked across to the bed, his eyes softened in the low light. He set the coffee down with its casual and classic thump and sat on the edge of the mattress, reaching an arm out to tug Peter towards him. “What was it, kid? Blip? Nebula? Monster under the bed?” He raised an eyebrow, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Peter shook as he sat up properly and allowed Mr. Stark to pull him closer, but with the heavy duvet grounding him it was difficult. The older man hummed and repositioned himself, kicking off his shoes to bring his legs up and stretch them out, shrugging an arm around Peter’s shoulder to bring him close, using his other hand – which he belatedly realised was roughed up from lab work, not that the kid seemed to mind – to move Peter’s head on to the nano-housing unit.

Although it was childish, Peter loved the glow of the nano-particles. He loved the hum of it beneath his ear. It was safety, security, protection. He understood why Pepper looked at it a little distastefully, why she would drop comments about him not needing it, having known Mr. Stark before it, without it—but Peter loved it. He treasured the sight of it, especially in the low light, when it looked like a tiny universe contained in a canister.

“Kid?”

“It was... it was something,” said Peter, forcing his eyes shut.

“Something, huh? Something like...” Mr. Stark paused. “C’mon, kid, I’m functioning on eleven hours of sleep in the past 72. Give me more than ' _something_ ' to work with.”

Peter _smooshed_ his face against the nanotech. “Theoretically, Mr. Stark, it might have involved you. It also might have involved me. And maybe it involved these... people who—who hurt you. Someone who thought he was right, but was actually wrong.” Under his hand, he felt Mr. Stark’s breathing hitch, and Peter knew he knew. “It might have-”

“Peter,” Mr. Stark butted in, talking in a firm but calming voice. He ruffled his fingers into the hair at the nape of Peter’s neck, making circular motions through it. “Kid. I’m gonna tell you something—nightmares and dreams, they’re like...” Mr. Stark raised his arm from Peter’s hair and snapped his fingers, causing the boy to flinch and curl into his side with a yelp. “Sorry, Pete. But that’s what they’re like: tension, noise, some pain afterwards—and they can stick around a while, thrumming along in the background. Sometimes they jolt you awake, and sometimes they put you to sleep. I don’t gotta tell you that, right?

“Look, not my best metaphor – I can never get ‘em right with you – but kid, if that... scenario is going to keep bothering you...” Mr. Stark trailed off, his worked hand settling back on Peter’s shoulder—drawing him in impossibly close and propping him up. “I can make them go away,” Mr. Stark said into Peter’s ear, his nose nudging into the side of his head.

The steady echo of Mr. Stark’s breath lulled Peter, safe and sound. He closed his eyes. “Pete?” Mr. Stark jostled him, a soft chuckle falling from his parted mouth when Peter blinked awake and crossed his arms with a far-off look settling in his eye, his eyebrows raised and mouth ballooned like he was hiding a frog. “I can make them leave. I can ship them off to the ruined Compound—for all I care, they can rebuild the damn thing and use it as their club house.”

“You can’t do that, Mr. Stark,” said Peter, a smile eclipsing the frown. “No. I... I can get through it—it’s just, it’s just time, right? I mean, you’re OK. You—you gave him back the shield.” He tried to nestle back down, feeling sleep grabbing at him from the depths of his own head. “You’ll be all right, yeah? They... can’t hurt you now, right?”

Mr. Stark laughed, louder this time, and slightly jarring to Peter’s sensitivities. “I’d like to think so, considering how much shit I went through to get them pardoned. I think I’ve repaid my debt in full.”

Peter blinked the sleep from his eyes. “... Debt?”

“Steve saved my life, apparently, along with twenty-odd thousand others—including Bruce and Stephen,” said Mr. Stark, brushing a hand through Peter’s hair. “Don’t remember it personally; I wasn’t there. It was something to do with HYDRA. Pepper showed me the file a while back.”

Peter snorted. “You’ve definitely repaid the debt, Mr. Stark.”

Mr. Stark stayed silent a moment, and then moved to gather Peter into a sort-of hug. He said, “But Pete, give me the word and they’re gone – all right? They make you even the slightest bit uncomfortable, and they’re gone; this is your home first, OK?”

Inhaling the familiar smells of sandalwood and machine oil, Peter nodded against his shoulder and said, “OK, Mr. Stark. I’ll... I’ll get through it.”

“Kid, please: Tony.” Mr. Stark chuckled, laying them back down. “Wanna let go, kid?”

“No, Mr. Stark.” Peter held on tighter.

Mr. Stark whistled his laughter, removed one hand and ruffled Peter’s hair. “Atta boy, Petey-pie.”

###### 

Peter closed his eyes against the memory, and then opened them a moment later with steely determination. In that instant, he knew one thing: he didn’t want to just ‘get through’ anymore.

Peter gave Happy a reasoning look.

Happy let out a long sigh. He turned to the teacher. “Mr... Harrington. The reason you aren’t allowed your phone is because of security breaches we’ve had in the past related to people with lower Levels. The reason Peter is allowed his phone is because his Level is-”

“Access all areas,” Martyn cut in, striding over. Although Happy looked momentarily pissed to have been interrupted, a gleam sat in his eye at the wording; obviously, Happy was much more used to dealing with people in the relative know than teachers with attitude, and the tour guide had given him an out which wasn’t as personal as Happy could have gone.

Peter quirked his lip. _That’s interesting_.

“That’s right. Kid’s got access to everywhere in the Tower,” said Happy, nodding and gesturing towards Peter. He gave a harried look to his watch. “Anyway, I think you’ve been held up enough.”

“What about the Q&A about security?” Charles asked, having shoved his phone into the packet and stuck his name on it before throwing it in the box.

“You got a question, you email it,” said Happy gruffly. He pressed his lips into a line. “Wanna know the truth about being a security guard, kid? Most of the time, the person you’re guarding is a self-sacrificing idiot who’ll defend the asshole who’s punching him.” He gave Peter a knowing stare, and then turned around and walked away with a wave of his head. “Keep yer badges on, or I’ll chuck you out myself.”

The class was left speechless, looking between Mr. Harrington, Martyn and Peter. Mr. Dell gave a snort. “Well, you did say he was a stickler,” said the fun teacher. He clapped his hands and brought everyone’s attention back under control. “Anyway! Field trip! Field trip! Let’s go!”

+

After a few minutes spent waiting on the ‘special guest’, a young woman popped out from a door to say, “We’re so sorry, but Secretary Rosendale will be joining you a little later on. She’s just giving a private conference to some journalists.”

The words triggered in Peter’s head immediately: A private conference? To journalists? He stretched his senses, but the only pressing conversation he could hear was between an engineer and a water dispenser which wasn’t dispensing any water.

“OK,” Martyn replied, muttering something under his breath which Peter heard clearly, “Thanks for wrecking the special guest.” He put on something resembling a smile and took out his trusty clipboard, making a quick gesture to the group. “OK! OK! No time to waste, then. Let’s get going to the first part of the tour—which is the security gate. Shouldn’t take us too long—you all look like good kids.” Martyn led them toward the metal gates, proudly guarded by Peter’s two friends.

Peter smiled at their apparent bewilderment to see a tour group. Martyn immediately threw himself forwards, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. “Hello, gentlemen,” he greeted in his Britishness. “Midtown High School, here for their OFA tour—I’m Martyn Rennie.”

 _Martyn Rennie. Rennie._ , thought Peter as the guards nodded in false understanding and began to order everyone to remove their sweaters and anything in their pockets; their shoes if they contained metal ringlets, belts—God, Peter was so glad he didn’t have to do all of that.

Wait. _Did_ he have to do all that?

Peter was so caught up in his own head he nearly missed Flash’s voice coming at him from his east: “Hey, Parker?” the boy hissed, as he was forced to remove his moderately expensive shoes; they were scuffed to bits, but holding up better than Peter’s old standbys he’d continued repairing with both electrical and duct tape.  
He had better shoes nowadays, shoes which cost the same as two months’ rent on an apartment in Queens; he never wore them to school, on the street or even around the working floors of the Tower. Come to think of it, he wasn’t sure he’d ever worn them except to Stark Industries’ Annual Charity Ball, and then he’d only put them on because they were comfy and Pepper mentioned there was a lot of standing around and talking to uninteresting people with too much money and nothing to spend it on.

Raising his eyes from the floor, Peter knocked back a groan and said, “What, Flash?”

“How’d you get Mr. Stark’s bodyguard to do that?” Flash asked, the undertone of his voice turning sultry in the next sentence. “D’you do something? I mean, not like you could pay for them to let you keep your phone... You know, Parker, maybe you do have an internship.” His eyes flicked up and down Peter’s body, his thinking obviously clear. “A very _personal_ internship with Tony Stark.”

Peter sucked in a breath at the lewd suggestion, his eyes straying from Flash to the ceiling. He prayed to a god he didn’t believe in that FRIDAY hadn’t caught Flash’s words in either microphone or camera form, because if she had there wasn’t anything Peter could do to save him. “Flash,” Peter said. “I get it, all right? I get you can’t take the idea of me actually doing well at something and getting something and being... someone... But-”

“Nah, it’s not that, Penis,” said Flash, his eyes narrowing in undue annoyance. “I, honestly, just don’t like you. I tolerate you—but there are some people you just can’t help but hate, y’know? Well, you’re one of those.” He wrinkled his nose, pausing at his belt, and then left it. “I don’t care what you say, either—there’s defo something weird going on with you.” Flash poked Peter in the shoulder, and Peter lamely allowed himself to be pushed back a step. “Why the _fuck_ would Tony Stark want you? In _any_ way.” With that said, Flash pushed passed and went to wait in line with the others as Martyn started to explain FRIDAY's purpose.

Peter stared after him, feeling his breathing pick up and bubble in his throat until he was swallowing around it. Suddenly, FRIDAY’s voice cut into his earbuds: “Peter, you seem to be in distress.”

God. How often had he heard those words over the past week? It felt like hundreds. Peter closed his eyes and shook his head, clenching his jaw. He couldn’t exactly reply to FRIDAY—not when everyone was around, despite how important Happy had rendered his internship seeing as he was allowed his phone-- _His phone!_ He grabbed his phone out and turned away from the group. “I’m fine, FRIDAY,” he said into the black screen, shifting his stare to the ceiling. “Did you... catch what Flash said?”

“I did, Peter,” said FRIDAY securely into his ear, her accent mellowed. “I am currently processing it, as the tone was picked up as hostile.”

“Yeah, cancel that, FRI,” Peter said, giving a low whistle under his breath when he heard Martyn call everyone toward the gates. “It was just... harmless teasing. Did you... Nah, know what? It’s not worth it.” Even just saying the words made his heart hurt. He would tell someone. He would—after all this was over, after everything was safe and secure and he didn’t have to worry about the repercussions. Peter took in a long breath and slid his phone into the pocket of his hoodie, comforted by the gentle weight.

He turned to get into line, when FRIDAY’s voice perked up again, “Peter. I think you should know Dr. Stephen Strange is currently watching the security cameras. I would suggest making sure no one around you tries to threaten you, as I cannot comprehend what The Wizard would do.” She paused, and then added, “As he has many times been very irrational in his reasoning.”

Peter bit his lip and then thought better of it, forcing a docile smile. He walked the few steps to get into line behind Mr. Dell and Cindy, stretching an arm above his head as it would get rid of the tension.

Security stayed back as Peter’s classmates walked through the scanners, letting FRIDAY announce them one-by-one automatically: “Eugene Thompson; guest; Level 1. Affiliation: OFA school group. Welcome, Eugene.” Flash preened to have been announced by FRIDAY's automatic coding.

Peter listened, watching and waiting as Mr. Harrington padded through. Security pulled him over when the light above flashed red and let out a pulse, and Peter watched his teacher receive a pat down. It felt a little like sweet-timed justice. Peter’s quaint smile fell away when Mr. Dell turned towards him and said, “Peter, are you listening to music?”

“Uh, no, Sir. I’m not.” Peter shook his head, trying to keep the alarm out of his voice. “I have... sensory issues, Mr. Dell. I need them to concentrate – especially in the Tower.” He took in a long breath, flicking his eyes around their surroundings—but it seemed as if only the teacher was listening.

“Well, Mr. Parker,” said Mr. Dell, going unusually formal. “That’s... an issue... But I think you’ll have to remove them for the time being, particularly as you’ve been allowed to keep your phone.” He gave Peter a sad look. “I understand, but...” It was obvious he was struggling between his values, the principals of the school and the field trip. “But it doesn’t look very fair on Martyn; they could be misconstrued as being earbuds for music.”

 _Shit. Shit_. If Peter took them out, he’d lose his connection to FRIDAY—which meant she’d announce him as soon as he stepped through the security gates. He bit his lip, tossing a look at where he _knew_ one of her cameras was watching him. Peter turned fully to face Mr. Dell; the teacher’s eyes were kind, and Peter tried to reason with him. “They are earbuds, Sir, which double as ear defenders. Which means I...” Peter trailed off at seeing the confusion in Mr. Dell’s eyes; he wasn’t impressed by Peter’s hesitation, obviously, and he could totally see why: Peter was definitely being cagey. With dread pooling in his stomach, Peter opted for the uncomfortable truth: “I also need them to communicate with FRIDAY, the Tower’s AI, Mr. Dell.”

Mr. Dell crossed his arms. “You chat with the lady in the roof saying hello to everyone?” he asked, gesturing vaguely toward the ceiling high above them.

“Yes, Sir,” said Peter. Reluctantly, he took the other earbud out of his pocket and held it towards his teacher. “Although, most of our ‘chat’ is work-based. Maybe I could convince you, Sir?”

Plucking it from Peter’s hand, Mr. Dell held it casually to his ear. “This is part of yer... internship, then?”

“Yes,” Peter replied immediately, drawing on long-suppressed confidence. “Most of us, uh, _higher_ interns need FRIDAY in our ears constantly. It saves us time—and with me already being noise-sensitive, having her in my ear is definitely easier.” He waded into dangerous territory, finding he couldn’t shut up, “She’s especially helpful in a crisis or emergency.”

Mr. Dell’s eyes widened. “An emergency-”

“FRIDAY,” Peter blurted, interrupting him before he could enquire as to the kinds of emergencies Peter had had to deal with—he’d lost count himself, especially of the ones he might have had a hand in causing. “Say hello to my teacher - Mr. Dell - please, and tell him I need my earbuds.”

Mr. Dell startled at the AI’s voice coming through the earbud. Peter, with the other in his own ear, heard the one-way conversation: “Hello, Mr. Dell. I am FRIDAY and I help run the framework of the Tower. In order for me to do my job, I need to be able to inform Peter of anything quickly and discreetly. Taking away that access is very possibly endangering yourself and your students.”

Mr. Dell stood frozen to the spot, his mouth hanging open. He pulled the earbud away when FRIDAY’s voice clicked out and, shaking, shoved it back into Peter’s hands. Peter wiped it against the sleeve of the hoodie and then placed it carefully in the pocket; he really only needed one, after all, when walking about the lower floors and needing to concentrate on everything around him, too. “Sir?” asked Peter a moment later, noticing the teacher had significantly paled.

“Witches,” Mr. Dell muttered, shaking his head and drawing in a long breath. He turned on his heel towards the security gate as Cindy trotted through happily (“Cindy Moon; guest; Level 1. Affiliation: OFA school group. Welcome, Cindy.”), waving off Peter’s confusion with a, “You can wear it, Mr. Parker.” With that said, still somewhat shaking, Mr. Dell walked through the gate while staring about like the ceiling itself was about to come down on him—when FRIDAY spoke up in welcome he practically jumped out of his skin with a small shriek which had the guards chuckling in mild-mannered confusion.

(The light above the gate turned a shiny green much to Mr. Harrington’s annoyance at having, so far, been the only one they’d clocked as an issue (he forgot he had metal ringlets on his shoes).)

Peter let out a controlled breath and walked forwards, ready to take his turn after Sally. Martyn was there beside him, waiting at the side to give any helpful comments on what else should be removed, but he took one sweeping glance of Peter and ushered him forward without saying a word about the fact Peter hadn’t removed—well, anything. Reminding himself to look into the odd tour guide they’d been assigned from OFA, Peter turned his attention to the guards. “Hello.”

Immediately, both guards turned at his voice—recognition snapping through their eyes. The one nearest to Peter – Karl, who’d been moved indefinitely to New York from the Berlin branch – waved him to one side. “Waiting in line, kid? You know you can go around the side.”

Peter gave him a reasonable smile and said, “I’m with the tour group, actually, so I think I should show willing.” He tried to relax his posture a little, smoothing himself into the appropriate expression; after today, Peter couldn’t be sure what tomorrow would bring, but he knew he’d have to deal with SI’s staff a fair-sight longer than his ‘schoolmates’. They knew him as a certain person, like the school did; he needed to balance the two: wear two shadows on top of one another, as it were.

Karl raised an eyebrow and turned, taking in Peter’s classmates, before he twisted back to the aforementioned. “You are helping?” he asked.

Shrugging, Peter leant close and said, “Something like that.” The nerves rolled off his shoulders at the familiar back-and-forth of banter. “They’ll get lost without me.” Peter flashed Karl a smile. This, he knew how to do. This was what was expected of him in the Tower; a charming albeit nerdy kid who had the ear of FRIDAY. Here, he was not known as puny or kicked on. Here, he was respected on nearly the same level as Tony and Pepper.

Karl laughed, swinging an arm through the air which would have landed on Peter’s shoulder had they not had a rather lengthy discussion about it the last it happened. Instead, the German happily settled it on his own wrist and then gave a nod to the rest of Peter’s classmates still waiting to go through. “OK. I got to get through the rest of them, Peter—go through. I seriously doubt you’ll set off any sensors; you never normally do.”

“That’s FRIDAY for you,” said Mark, Brooklyn born and bred, the guard on the other side, who chuckled as he stared at the screen watching the shoes and lint pass through the machine. He jabbed a thumb at the gate. “FRIDAY has her favourites. Come on through, Peter—before you report back that we ain’t doing our job!”

“You guys rock at your job,” Peter laughed, much to the bemusement of most of his class—who, somehow, were still in disbelief the Peter Parker they knew could be the same Peter Parker they were seeing now. Ned had had a similar reaction, Peter mused, although his had been a little more on the fanboy edge of everything in particular, since they always came in the backdoor and straight into the hallways of the building. As far as Peter knew, Ned had actually never seen the reception. _I think we’ll keep it that way_.

Peter turned to the gate and breathed in, letting it out slowly as his feet moved without his permission, taking him through and on to the other side. The light shone green immediately, and Peter heard FRIDAY announce him in his ear: “Peter B. Parker-Stark; classified; level 0. Supervisor: Boss. Hello, Peter. I’m very happy your teacher allowed you to keep our connection. It will be much easier to talk to you.”

Peter smiled, nodding in a way to look absentminded as he joined his scatter of classmates—he thought he’d gotten away with it, as everyone seemed concerned with reading each other’s badges, until he heard Flash proclaim, “Hey! How come Mr. Stark’s AI didn’t give out Peter’s information?”

Their classmates quickly shut up and, in belated realisation, agreed with Flash. “Yes,” Abe muttered, his fingers tensing and un-tensing from his badge. “I thought maybe I missed it, but obviously not?”

“What gives?” Jason wrinkled his nose.

Peter opened his mouth to answer when FRIDAY came through into his ear, “Peter, I have classified information from Boss. Please find somewhere you can privately talk to me.”

 _Not a good time, FRI_ , thought Peter, clapping his mouth shut when he noticed Mr. Dell whispering to Mr. Harrington—his eyes wide, and very obviously talking about the earbud incident. Peter stood there a little dumbly, staring at his classmates and teachers, as the last few dregs of the field trippers came through security with Martyn on their tail.

FRIDAY further urged him, “Peter, the information is classified and will probably require your immediate action. You must remove yourself for a few minutes.”

Mr. Harrington stepped towards Mark and asked the security guard, “Excuse me, but one of my students wasn’t read out by the AI?”

Mark looked at him, eyebrow raised. “You mean... Peter? Uh...” He turned his attention to Peter himself. “Not sure my clearance is enough to say anything without risking my job. Sorry, man.”

Mr. Harrington pressed, and Peter started to squirm, but very suddenly the bouncy personality of Martyn was fluffing himself up and trotting across to the teacher. “I’m sorry, Mr. Herring (Mr. Harrington had given up correcting him), but I think the information is _at least_ partially classified. The only one with clearance enough to answer the question is Peter himself.”

“Well,” said Mr. Harrington, and Peter’s hair rose on the back of his neck, turning on the spot to see why his Spidey Sense was acting up, but his answer came a few seconds later when Mr. Harrington finished, “I’m not sure I would trust Mr. Parker at this time to tell me the whole truth, as I have it in good consciousness he might be handling the facts a little loosely.” He turned away then, too quickly to see Mark’s jaw drop open and for the guard to turn a pointed look at Karl, who in turn sent one towards the ceiling.

Peter paled. It wasn’t his own safety his Spidey Sense had warned him about, he realised, but his _teacher’s. Shit_. He shifted where he stood, his classmates’ attention diverting to Mr. Harrington and, standing behind him with a not-so-subtle scowl, Martyn. When the tour guide got to Peter, he took a second glance and said rather loudly, “Peter, right? Of course. Hey, you’re looking a bit pale – maybe you should pop to the bathroom quickly, huh? I’m sure you know where it is.” He sent him a knowing smile, and waved his hand dismissively. “You can catch up to us in motor vehicles, right? With FRIDAY’s help if we've moved on.”

Peter opened his mouth to reply, but shut it again quickly when Mr. Dell looked at him and said, “Yeah, think I agree—if, uh. Yeah. I’m sure you know where the bathrooms are?” The teacher's eyes were still wide, and he was shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other, casting long, scared looks at the ceiling.

“Oh, yeah, I-I do.” Peter took his chance when Mr. Harrington's attention was on something Cindy said, and dived down the left-hand hallway. He threw a glance back, and caught Martyn’s decisive nod, before taking off at speed for the nearest recovery room. FRIDAY let him in immediately, turning on the lights, and Peter ripped out the earbud to let the AI’s voice echo around the soundproof room. “FRI? FRIDAY, what’s wrong? What’s the information? Are the Avengers coming to kill my teacher? Is the world being attacked?”

It took FRIDAY a moment to recalculate her sensors, but when she did a wide, flat-screen TV slid out of the wall and switched on immediately to a news bulletin. A reporter was speaking, but she’d been muted. Beneath her, the headline screamed: “ **THE SECRETARY OF EDUCATION, MARIA ROSENDALE, HAS TODAY CLAIMED TO HAVE MET THE SON OF TONY STARK AND THE HEIR TO STARK INDUSTRIES**.”  
Beneath the large-print headline: _Secretary Rosendale told a room of reporters at Stark Industries, where she is for a meeting with Mr. Stark himself: "I met the boy this morning and was immediately ordered to sign an NDA regarding him. I have but, after talking with my legal advisor, I believe the public has a right to know this information as it is regarding a company and personas heavily in the public eye."_

Peter stared, open-mouthed, as he saw the last hope of his comfortable life being snapped away from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > "Boss." Happy stepped out of the elevator. "We got a problem-" He stopped when faced with the television and the reporter on it standing outside the main entrance to Stark Industries, talking a mile a minute. Around the living quarters, the Avengers sat listening, only briefly raising their heads.
>> 
>> "Yeah, we do," said Tony, a hand over his face as his phone rang for the forty-fourth time in five minutes.
> 
> I hope this chapter was good ?? It's definitely been the most difficult so far and kept me up thinking about the ways in which it wasn't working, so I hope I've managed to scrape it together enough to make sense where we're going with this. Stay safe ! -J. 


	7. It's (not) a Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So you gotta fire up, you gotta let go  
> You'll never be loved till you've made your own  
> You gotta face up, you gotta get yours  
> You never know the top till you get too low"  
> \- I'm So Sorry, _Imagine Dragons._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _*Pushes chapter over to you before falling into bed*_
> 
> I wanna take a moment to say a huge thank you to you all for the love and comments I got on the last chapter. It was totally overwhelming to see you guys react so positively, especially to 11k words. Thank you for sticking with me for, what - like 50k words-ish? You guys are awesome.  
> I hope you'll continue to read and enjoy into the future ! -J.
> 
> The awesome [InformalFallacy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InformalFallacy/pseuds/InformalFallacy) has very politely made a TVTropes page for Open For All ! [Click Here!](https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Fanfic/OpenForAll) to go to it :)

Currently, the most accurate description of Peter’s life could be boiled down to a moment in time, which could further be condensed into a short paragraph:

As soon as the elevator’s doors opened, Peter launched himself into the Avengers’ quarters and slipped on the worn-down toes of his old, taped shoes and fell hard on to his front to land with a breathless _oompf_.

This could be condensed _even further_ , if one was so inclined, to be simply: The world really hated Peter B. Parker(-Stark).

“Peter!” Steve was at his side immediately, the gentle weight of his large hand flattening on Peter’s shoulder. “What are you doing up here? Aren’t you meant to be on your field trip? Are you hurt?”

Peter slapped the hand away without another thought and pressed his shoes into the floor, propelling himself forwards in a stumble towards Tony who’d practically leapt out of his armchair when Peter crashed into the room. Peter threw his arms around the older man, eliciting a gasp, and grasped on to him, stuffing his face directly into Tony’s shoulder. “They know!” Peter shouted, as his world-view darkened from both his head – his memories of trauma – and the obscuring waistcoat he was quickly wetting with released tears, breathing heavy and laboured as he tried to _smoosh_ himself into Tony like a child.

 _I am a child_.

“Peter, it’s not so bad.” Steve was there _again_ , his warm hand falling to rest on Peter’s arm, trying to tug him away. Peter clenched on to Tony harder, shaking. “Hey, will you look at us? We’re trying to help—can’t help if you’ve got your face stuffed into Tony’s shoulder.”

“Hey, Capsicle. Get your hands off him.” Finally, Peter realised, Tony’s arms were wrapping around him, one hand fidgeting up to pry off the Captain’s fingers. Peter visibly relaxed some, but his senses were practically enflamed by the commotion. He could barely concentrate on much besides the hum of the nano-particles beneath Tony’s shirt and the thrumming of voices – loud, imploring voices and— _Dad! Shut them up!_

The voices slammed to a halt immediately and Peter drooled, coughing through the breathlessness as he felt himself being moved – still wrapped in Tony’s hug – and then suddenly they were sitting down and Peter was being rearranged in Tony’s lap into somewhat of a comfortable position, his head shifting to be over the nano housing unit. Despite the shirt, the area was cold against his dripping nose and Peter removed one hand to wipe his face, trying without hope to get himself under some semblance of control.

He nearly leapt out of his skin when, periodically, phones started ringing and chiming and belling and dinging. Peter crushed his head against Tony’s chest, sobbing—because he was a child. He was a child who’d been through Hell, left briefly, and was now being dragged back as forcefully as possible, his neck exposed and ready for a collar with his name on it.

_But which name?_

“FRIDAY! Mute all phones in the vicinity,” Tony said above and below the noise, reaching Peter’s fragile senses as one of his rough hands started combing through Peter’s hair – a tad painfully, maybe, but the action was grounding and the pressure kept Peter from the highs of crisis. The noise around him was settling, the Avengers had backed away, and Peter was starting to feel his heartbeat again instead of the constant rattling. “Pete, _hey_ – slow breaths for me. C’mon, kid, breathe in and out—in n’ out, Spiderling.”

Peter’s eyes filled with fresh tears. “The-they know,” he whispered against the nanos, his wet breaths spittling on to Tony’s shirt and waistcoat. “They—they know who I am.”

“Not quite, Peter,” said Bruce from somewhere to the left, in the general shadows of everything surrounding his security and safety, somewhere he couldn’t see for the beating murkiness of all but his place in Tony’s arms—a hand was rubbing his back carefully, gentle hands with something of a murmur to them.

Peter breathed in, the smells of the room intensified – the clawing cherry of Steve, the mechanical cleanliness of Bucky, the rose perfume of Natasha—the woody, outdoorsy scent of Clint and the rubbery smell tending to stick to Bruce’s hands—and then something else touched his nose, something similar to Tony in its soothing tendencies. Something warming. Something like cinnamon and steeped tea, like the burning hearth on a winter’s morning.

Doctor Stephen Strange.

The murkiness lifted, and Peter realised with a stuck throat the shadows around him had been real—even if only for a moment, for an illusionist’s second—and they’d done exactly as they should have; they’d barricaded him in with his safe thing and let his mind reanimate slowly, without the pressure of everything. It piled soft pressure against him, to ward off the anxiety attack manifesting all too quickly.

Peter raised his head and the world around him came into focus. _I’m seventeen! I’m seventeen and I’m sitting in—oh, God_. He squirmed in Tony’s lap, embarrassment tinting his already-flushed face a rosier pink. “Oh-oh, oh, my God,” Peter hiccupped, pushing himself into the armrest. “I-I’m sorry. I-I-”

“Peter, relax,” said both Tony and Dr. Strange at somewhat of the same time. “You saw the broadcast, obviously,” said Tony, reaching to place a hand on Peter’s shoulder and to thumb the joint. “That’s on me, kid. Oh, lordy. I- I thought you should know, in case anything happened on the trip—it wasn’t meant to pull you away from it; I’m sorry.”

“How can’t it?” Peter gasped, wiping his face. He turned at the sound of footsteps and stiffened when Natasha pushed a glass of water into his hand, visibly going tense as their fingers brushed. “Th-thank you.” Peter brought the glass to his mouth and inhaled the smell of the water before chugging it down, pulling back with another gasp—trying hard to bring enough oxygen into his lungs. “I-I mean – it-it’s over. I-I can’t—it’s not my-my choice anymore.”

“We’re already working on it,” said Steve from the edge of Peter’s vision, though he didn’t turn to face the Captain, instead opting to watch Dr. Strange’s cloak disentangle from its master’s shoulders. With a flick of the magic-user’s hand, it swept around Peter, holding him near and dear.

“Pepper and SI’s legal team are already working on it,” Bruce corrected Steve from where he was sitting on the couch, wringing his hands; his neck had a touch of green to it, but nothing to be alarmed by just yet. “ _We’ve_ been sitting here for-for the past half hour arguing, Steve.”

From the corner of Peter’s eye, he watched the Captain straighten up and his hands clench into fists. “Well, it’s a bit difficult to keep protecting someone’s identity if you’ve got someone in the team operating with ulterior motives, Bruce.”

“Steve,” Natasha said levelly, her slender body slipping behind Peter to lay a hand on the Captain’s raised, tense shoulder. “Give it a break.”

“No, Nat.” Steve dislodged her hand and turned, walking steadfastly towards Peter and Tony’s shared armchair. “Peter deserves to know. He—Tony, you got his choice taken away from him.”

“Mr. Rogers,” Dr. Strange tried to plicate, stepping forwards – standing between Tony, Peter, and Steve – his shaking hands, palms out, thrust toward the Captain. They sparked at the tips; a warning. He cocked his head. “Measure your next words very carefully; for they weigh a ton and your audience might not have the shoulders to bear the burden.”

“Peter.” Turning at his name, Peter blinked red-rimmed, confused eyes at Tony as the older man took his hands. “Trust me; I had no hand in this other than to protect you. What I said to her – what I told her was to protect you.”

“Bullshit.” Sam’s voice drifted over from where he stood in the arch of kitchen, his arms crossed decidedly over his chest as he stalked into the room. He was still wearing his wing-suit and had a fine layer of sweat on his forehead from likely just flying in. “That is bullshit, Stark. We all know how Rosendale acts, and you go and _tell her_ Peter is your son?”

Tony’s grip on Peter’s hands tightened, twisting in the chair to give the other man a dirty look. “Give me a break! If I hadn’t told her, she’s just as likely to have thought Peter was my-my... _bit on the side_! You _know_ her type, Sam! She just wants a story and some drama.” His hold on Peter loosened and he stood up, pushing Dr. Strange to one side to stare Steve in the eye- “This would have happened anyway if I hadn’t said anything, only I’d have a CPS investigation on my ass!”

“She signed an NDA,” Rhodey chimed in from the hallway, moving smoothly into the room. His hand dipped on to Peter’s shoulder momentarily, before reaching for Tony’s. “Tony is right, Steve. The best thing that can happen now is SI suing Maria Rosendale for releasing the details of a minor.”

Steve was unrelenting, and Peter watched as he pressed into Tony’s space—and Peter shuddered at seeing it, watching Tony flinch from the obvious intention of the stance, the memory of it despite the years gone. Dr. Strange’s cloak cuddled closer to Peter, moving him from the uncomfortable armrest into the chair.

“It didn’t need to happen at all!” Steve protested, the rough edge of his voice cutting like a knife. “I thought you _had_ a story, Tony? Wasn’t Peter your _intern_?” He opened one large arm wide, gesturing to the open space of the common room.

“It’s a bit difficult to keep that story when he comes down in my sweater, Rogers!” Tony barked, raising his voice against the mutters and groans of the once Rogues, pushing back into Steve’s space even as Rhodey and Bruce tried to calm him down.

Peter’s heart raced, watching as Tony heaved himself out of their holds and gave Steve a shove back. More by surprise than weakness, the Captain stumbled backwards. Bucky caught him, his metal arm folding around Steve’s wrist.

Tony threw himself forwards again, getting right up into Steve’s face. “I was trying to protect him!”

“Oh, were you?” Steve bit. “Or were you trying to protect yourself? Protect your fortune and your darn Tower? God, I thought you’d changed, Tony!”

“Stop using my name like you’re _done_ with me, Rogers!”

“I’ve been done with your stupidity for years,” Steve rumbled back, and Peter watched as his hand came up and fisted in Tony’s shirt, above the nanos. “ _Stark_.”

Peter’s breath hitched, his eyes widening at the sight as Tony’s hands came to grip around Steve’s and—and suddenly the cloak was wrapping around Peter’s body, loosely enough to breathe, but everything else was at least partly obscured. He dug his fingers in and tried to remove it, attempting to claw it away but even his super-strength was powerless against the ways of the mystic arts. “Let me out!” Peter wetly yelled, hoping someone would hear his distress. As the cloak locked him under itself, Peter blinked in and out of knowing where he was and where he wasn’t—

One moment, he could feel the pressure of the cloak over him, grounding him—and the next his thoughts flashed backwards in time – years ago, trapped under the rubble, screaming and begging for anyone to rescue him, for anyone to come and take the flattening, grinding pain away. The adrenaline had fixed his bones and his breakages in 0.03 of a second as they happened; it was the fastest he’d ever recovered, and nothing had come close since.

He never wanted to experience the feeling of a bone breaking over and over and over again, and this was too close to it.

“Peter? Peter? Holy—Strange, I think you’re suffocating him.”

“For fuck’s sake, Strange! Get your asshole outerwear off my kid!”

The cloak removed itself immediately, leaving Peter breathless, gasping and shaking, flopping sideways to land on the carpet. “Owh,” he whined, blinking through the light. He tipped his head back on to the floor and let out a pent-up breath, his eyes focusing in on the faces above him. Natasha was offering her hand, and he took it with some reluctance, letting her drag him to his feet with a little help from his own strength. The cloak returned to sit securely around Dr. Strange’s shoulders.

A silence, broken only by the television in the background nattering away, descended on them, until—

“ _Language_.”

The Avengers parted to look at Steve, standing where he’d stood all along, with Bucky practically glued to his hip. He’d crossed his arms, tipped his head, and had the complicated expression of a man who’d woken up after he’d met the Devil and settled into work in Hell. In a few strides, he crossed the room to take up the open space in front of Peter—and Peter flinched back as he got close, a look of intense fear settling in his eyes as Captain America – the good, the great, the hero – came towards him, lacking his shield but—

But all too suddenly Peter knew and experienced _the fear_. The fear Tony had had; and if not the same than something much too similar, something he could feel in the depths of his bones—he was staring at the embodiment of America, and America was staring back.

“Mr. Rogers,” came Dr. Strange’s voice, low and thoughtful, as he stepped up to Peter’s side—and Peter instantly stepped into him as the familiar calmness he felt in space, on Titan, flooded him—a flash of memory reminded Peter of how Dr. Strange had shown him the great feats of magic he was capable of, and they’d discussed briefly how Peter could use them to his advantage in the fight—hopping from portal to portal. He’d glimpsed a smile on the magic-user’s face before Thanos had slammed him into the rock, and then the memory stuttered to a stop. Nearly everything after it was dust, and the parts that weren’t he hated remembering.  
Just as Mr. Stark was safe—as Harley was safe—as Pepper was safe—so too was Dr. Strange safe. His hand folded around Peter’s side, over his shoulder, and Peter flicked his eyes up only to see the man peering at him. Dr. Strange turned his attention back to the matter at hand quickly, but not before patting Peter and turning him towards Tony. “Stark, I realise it’s a bad time, but I believe Peter might need to return to his field trip.”

Tony stepped up, not much shorter than Dr. Strange when wearing his heeled boots, and reached for Peter—and Peter, like a child – _I am a child_ – walked into Tony’s grip, let himself be held securely, and led out from the group and their force—their weight bearing down against him. Tony tugged him across the room, with Steve’s eyes following them, and then Tony was moving himself to block the Captain’s stare, was bending down, holding both of Peter’s hands in his and looking at him like a father.

Peter nearly broke.

“Pete? Are you going to be OK to go back down?” asked Tony, flicking his eyes to the TV screen as the reporter positioned outside the Tower tried to get inside—she was immediately blocked by security, but they wouldn’t stop her for long. Tony’s eyes slid back to Peter. “I... Kid.”

“What’s going to happen?” Peter asked, breathing in and out slowly, trying hard to keep his fractured breaths under control. “Am-am I... Is it done, Mr. Stark? Do I really not have a choice anymore?”

Tony looked to the side, blinking long and slow. “Kid... You _always_ have a choice.” He tugged Peter forwards, bringing him into a hug. “There’s always a choice, even if there’s only one choice—it’s still a choice. It’s always a choice.” He pressed his face into Peter’s hair, and Peter felt the gentle press of his lips settle momentarily before quickly moving away—like they weren’t ‘there yet’. “I know I told you to knock ‘em dead, kid, but...” Tony’s eyes softened. “You don’t have to. We’re gonna try and make this all go away and... You can stay as Peter Parker as long as you want...”

Peter shifted, a blush splashing across his cheeks. “You saw, huh?”

“FRIDAY sent me an alert, kid.” Tony ruffled his hair. “Still not calling me Tony to my face, though? C’mon, Bruce was so excited this morning when he told me.”

A slight smile slipped on to Peter’s face, but it soon lowered when he saw Steve and Sam tossing them glowering looks over Tony’s shoulder. Tony noticed and straightened up, pulling Peter around so they were facing the elevator instead. He slid an arm around Peter’s shoulders, and then raised his voice to the ceiling, “FRIDAY, where are the brats?”

“They’ve just left motor, Sir. Heading to construction, now.”

“Wonderful,” said Tony, nodding. “And Peter needs to get down to them, right?”

“The tour guide is looking a little tense, yes, Boss.”

Peter planted his feet. “The tour guide,” he muttered, thoughts adrift as he tried to summon a face to a name and a name to a face. “Martyn... Martyn Rennie.”

Tony immediately looked up. “What about Martyn Rennie?”

Blinking up at him, Peter asked, “You know Martyn Rennie?” At Tony’s slight nod, Peter added, “He’s the tour guide.”

“Ah, so that’s what he’s doing, now,” said Tony, as the elevator opened. “You don’t remember him? He’s a friend.” He patted Peter’s shoulder. “I’m proud of you, kid. I’ve... got some stuff to take care of up here, as you can see, but I’ll probably pop in on you at some point,” he said, and gave Peter a small push towards the elevator. “After all, we gotta have a chat with that _teacher_ of yours...”

###### 

Peter walked stiffly down the concrete hallway to construction, reaching up to carefully clip FRIDAY’s connection back into his ear. “FRI,” he said, voice choked, still trying hard to figure out his emotions; he couldn’t quite believe what he’d witnessed, how Steve and Tony had laid into each other—what if Natasha and Dr. Strange hadn’t been there? What if Bucky and Sam had decided to do something? What if Bruce’s anger had gotten out of control? The list of ‘what ifs’ was too long for comfort. He wasn’t even up there now and—the thought faltered his step-beat-step—and Peter shook his head to banish those possibilities. “FRIDAY?” he repeated.

“Yes, Peter?” FRIDAY said into his ear, her voice softened with its lilt.

“If anything happens upstairs, can you contact me immediately, please?” asked Peter into the empty hallway, head turned towards the ceiling despite the voice in his ear.

FRIDAY responded almost instantly, “I’m sorry, Peter, but Boss has asked me to-”

Peter inhaled. “FRI, check protocol overrides.”

A pause. “Inactive. I’m sorry, Peter.”

 _Shit_. “Uh, all right... Authorisation?” Peter asked, twiddling his thumbs. _C’mon; I just need standard_.

“None, Peter. I’m sorry. Boss has currently forbidden you from Moderator authorisation.” FRIDAY paused again, this time for longer—until, “I have been instructed to notify you only if there is a risk to your own life.”

Peter dragged a hand down his face with a groan and finally nodded, slipping a hand into the pocket of _his_ SI hoodie. He removed his hand immediately and pulled awkwardly on the sleeve, trying to stop it riding up; he’d nearly forgotten it had a tendency to do this, which was the primary reason he usually stole Tony’s. But he’d asked FRIDAY especially if he could pop upstairs and grab it before going down to construction. It wasn’t that he hated it—it was just the fibres were weird and he could never get it to sit right on his shoulders. Tony’s encased him like a well-loved blanket.

Peter ran a hand over his red-and-blue stitched name – _Peter Parker_ – as he came to the doorway and took in a long breath, tipping his head to the left slightly. Through the windows, he could make out his class walking about, talking to the construction staff—being good field trippers. He clenched and unclenched his fingers, flicking his eyes to the ceiling.

Just as he was about to press his finger on to the scanner, his phone buzzed. Peter paused, listening as it buzzed again, and a third time and— _Ned_. It was unmistakeable, the little _Star Wars_ lightsaber effect he’d downloaded as a personal chime for his best friend. Turning to the right of the door, Peter took out his phone:

 **GuyInTheChair** : Dude.  
**GuyInTheChair** : DUDE DID U SEE THE NEWS OMG  
**GuyInTheChair** : PETER THATS U WTF  
**GuyInTheChair** : wait they dont have your name or photo buT DUDE  
**GuyInTheChair** : HOLY SHIT THE WHOLE RESORT HAS LEGIT STOPPED OMG PETER YOUR FAMOUS

Peter pushed the notifications away with his thumb and returned his attention to the doorway. He stepped up and pressed his finger to the scanner beneath the card-reader, a blue light scanning his biometrics in FRIDAY’s system; it was quicker than detaching his card and scanning the barcode, but it also meant—

“Biometric scan complete. Welcome to Construction, Peter: you have Level-0 status in this department.” Thankfully, FRIDAY’s voice emitted from a small speaker just beneath where his palm was resting as the door opened, and not to the whole room. He still drew attention as he stepped in, though, and headed towards his classmates.

But before he got to them, a bricks-and-mortar designer leapt in front of him. “Peter! Thank the Lord! There’s something gone wrong with the holographic table. It won’t overlay the final layer of cladding and it keeps warping the text.”

Peter snapped his head around. “What do you mean—it’s warping the text? What text are you applying? Are you using the correct CAD software? Did Evens forget to download the latest patch? You guys _know_ FRIDAY doesn’t allow anything more than three patches out of date.”

“We’ve done all those things,” called another, standing at the table. “We’re just trying to give a presentation to this school group, and the whole thing decides it doesn’t want to work!”

Immediately, Peter’s head refocused and his eyes flicked to his classmates – most of them were standing on one side of the holographic table; Stark-branded and patent. Some – like Mr. Dell’s students and Cindy – were staring at the workings of the hologram, trying to peer closer. But most of them were looking at Peter, taking him in—Flash, and Charles and Mr. Harrington. They didn’t look quite so pissed, but more bemused by the apparent handle Peter had when just walking into the situation.

Right at that moment, though, Peter pushed all those thoughts aside and got on with work. “Hey, Renner? Pass me the tablet, please.” Peter held out his hands for the tablet and took it near to him when it was handed over, getting himself over to the malfunctioning hologram in a few long strides as designers and experts jumped out of his steadfast way. When he got nearer, Peter swept his hand over the schematic on the table and brought a copy to the tablet, imputing a quick command to find the errors. When it came back almost immediately, Peter groaned. “Michael could have done this,” he said, throwing a look across to the designer.

“Well, what’s wrong with it?” asked Renner, scratching his head.

Peter looked up, sending a leisurely glance from his classmates to the table. “It’s them,” he said, gesturing vaguely at Mr. Harrington and the others, who took mild offence. Peter flicked his eyes to Martyn, who was watching him with familiar kindness, before he turned back to Renner. “Your problem is you’re trying to show classified building plans to a school group.”

“Oh,” said Renner, as he took back his tablet. “I guess that makes a lot of sense.” He started to laugh, the downiness of his blonde hair sticking to his forehead. “Thanks Peter. I honestly thought I’d broken ninety thousand dollars worth of kit—Hey, you heard the kid; I’m sorry, I can’t show you how we overlay the final section.”

The school group was staring. At Peter. And Peter was staring back. Suddenly, the going-on-dead look in Mr. Harrington’s eyes didn’t seem quite so scary, and nor did the blank matte of Charles’s, or even the fire and fury in Flash’s. If anything, Peter realised, he felt... sorry for them.

Especially for Mr. Harrington.

It wasn’t the kind of sadness which evoked in Peter a sense of moral duty, or the kind which made him want to forgive and forget—because he couldn’t do that. After the Blip, after he came home, a void had opened in him; everywhere he walked he saw the destruction left behind by the world which was, and the world to be In the people around him he found tension, and dampened anger; he saw emotions in peoples’ faces he’d never seen before. There was an age to the people who’d been left for five years, and an age to the people who’d lost them, too—and not just physically. World-worn eyes, cracked spines, voices unable to phrase any words they’d thought they might speak if they ever saw one another again.

Most of the Snapped had died a painless death; sudden and without the languid minute Peter had suffered as his head drifted from one plane to the next, as he’d grasped on to Tony and known his time was moments away but _how many moments_. He’d held on until his lungs had given, laying on the ground, listening to his own heart stop beating.

Peter heaved in a long breath and then let it out. In some ways, the changes after the Blip hadn’t been as apparent; societal pressure had flooded the returnees and kept the angst and mourning of those who’d stayed on living under the skin, but every day Peter could see more of it seeping out of people. He could look into someone’s face, could see the dampening off, depression turning to rage and rage to depression. Peter could _understand_ , too, when on that first day back at school, repeating his last year, he’d stepped into Mr. Harrington’s class and seen the grated look on the man’s face.

It had been the face of a man with insecurity beneath the tough but somewhat unremarkable facade. It was the face of a man unsure of whom half the children in the class actually were; a man who’d grieved and mourned and bargained and bet. Peter had stepped into class that first day back knowing his teacher would be different, as would his classmates, because Peter already acknowledged something had changed in him—a weaker person at the time he’d been, someone who lay down at the first taunts from Flash. Peter hadn’t seen the look in Mr. Harrington’s eye that first day.

He’d seen it now, though; the fact he’d had five years alone, had mourned the passing of his wife only to find out she’d run off with someone else during the confusion of the Snap. Of course people took advantage of it. Of course people used it. Mr. Harrington was one of millions who’d gone through the stages of grief and never come out the other side. That first day, Mr. Harrington had started his pressure on Peter—because who else was there to kick? Who else could he blame but the kid who got blamed for everything? It hadn’t been a total swing from the humble awkwardness, but Peter did remember the first biting remarks as the world learnt to cope with what had happened and accept things were back the way they were meant to be—Peter remembered the first time Mr. Harrington had snapped, sitting at his desk, looking at ghosts.

It had been because of Flash. A stupid comment to do with Peter’s internship; something like “ _Wow, five years we were gone and Penis Parker is still keeping up with his internship lie!_ ”

Peter got detention for nothing. It carried on like that, as Flash got back into his old, childish ways of bickering, of removing pieces of Peter’s puzzle. It was processing grief; Peter had started to do it, too: He’d lost five years, after all.

So had people like Mr. Harrington.

Now, standing in front of him, Peter realised his angry sadness for the teacher had morphed into pity.

That didn’t make his attitude right, though, and Peter wasn’t the only one getting hurt anymore—so were the people surrounding him, so were Ned and MJ who had to deal with his crap, so were the Avengers who had to put up with his moodiness. He was done letting that happen.

Here, in this place, he was king. “Renner,” said Peter calmly to gain the other’s frayed attention, and then gestured at his classmates. “Would you like me to authorise it?”

“Oh, uh...” Renner threw a look across the floor towards a few people working on testing, and then to a few others walking through the process of fire-proof cladding, and a few others currently reinstalling their CAD programs with bashful looks on their faces. Renner turned to Peter and gave a quick nod. “Can you? I just wanna show ‘em the sort of stuff we work on.”

Peter stepped up to the holographic table, shooting a glance at his teachers – who’d gone silent – and Martyn – who was smiling broadly – and then set to work, moving his hands through the display controls and enacting complicated patterns from memory, jumping through authority sheets and penning his name with his finger. As an aside, instead of jotting PARKER on the last verification, he wrote STARK with one finger and watched as FRIDAY accepted his biometric through her technology. “All right,” Peter said when the silence got heavy, watching as the hologram in front of him started to overlay differently. “Hey, Renner? Come and talk my class through this thing.”

Renner opened his mouth, and then stopped. “Your class?” he asked, blinking.

“Yep. Knock ‘em dead,” Peter replied, plucking a tablet from another table. As Renner settled in to tell his shocked class about the building, Peter stood back and fiddled with various other schematics and their authority, activating a projector for a couple of nervous interns who wanted to try out their cladding. From the corner of his eye, Peter noticed how some of his classmates – Cindy, Jason, Charles, Abe – kept glancing across to him, as though they’d never seen him in their life—and they hadn’t. Or, well, they hadn’t seen this Peter; they hadn’t seen the Peter who leant into tables and got his head absorbed into complicated building works, they hadn’t seen the Peter who was approached from all directions, who was accosted by people every few minutes for help on one thing or another.

They hadn’t seen his confidence, his surefootedness. They weren’t even seeing it now, not in its true form. He was still stuttering; he was stumbling; fumbling; his finger pressed the wrong button and he had to bite back a cuss as one CAD software engineer looked at him worriedly and asked whether he wanted a chair. Peter knew he was shaking; he knew he was not acting as himself—as the himself the employees or his class knew. Instead, he’d adopted the odd in-between, the overlaid shadows. He was nervous, making more mistakes than normal, and these were not the sort of mistakes which made him, but the sort that broke him down little by little until he was staring at the tablet and saying, “Yeah, no, I can’t do that one. Not right now.”

FRIDAY wasn’t saying anything to him, but he knew he was starting to fall into the dark spaces between panic and headstrong. He swallowed around the lump in his throat and took in another breath, flicking his eyes up as Renner finished his presentation and gestured for Peter’s class to have another look around. “Five minutes,” Martyn agreed, stepping up to Peter with a glimmer of concern in his eyes.

It was as he looked at Martyn’s face Peter suddenly remembered who he was. “You’re Katherine’s son.”

Martyn’s face opened immediately and his lips turned up in a smile. “I was wondering when you’d remember.” He turned them into the table, a hand fleetingly on Peter’s shoulder – the ghost of it – and they were staring down at some unfinished schematics and Martyn was acting as if he was asking about them as he said in a low voice, “It’s good to see you again, Peter.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t recognise you before now,” Peter gasped, stealing another look. “I mean—I should have. You’re hardly forgettable.”

Martyn laughed; his pitch carried just as high as it ever had and Peter could rapidly see the Martyn from those years ago—from back when he first met Tony, when he and Pepper were on their famous ‘break’, when he’d hired a secretary to get things done during and after the Sokovia Accords and the Avengers’ Civil War. Katherine Rennie had looked exactly as Peter always thought old British headmistresses should look: stern, with a set jaw and curved eyes behind wiry glasses which looked as if she’d pulled them straight from the wreckage of the London Blitz. Her hair had been a deep, almost blue, grey, and always combed away from her face with a headband.

Peter had always assumed her as being a cat person, the way she walked with the same particular pride he’d seen in the Prussian Blue cat he remembered living next door to Aunt May (with its human, of course).

He’d met Katherine several times whenever he went to the Tower in the early days after the Homecoming dilemma too, just as he had met her son then – Martyn Rennie. Peter could scantly believe he was faced with him now: he didn’t look much different to then, older yes, obviously having lived the five years between the Snap and the Blip, but now Peter knew who he was looking at it was apparent how much he looked like his mother, although he was stockier than her and with a flatter face—more like a British Shorthair.

Peter realised some two seconds later why he hadn’t clocked Martyn Rennie as Katherine’s son—back when Peter had first met him he’d barely left the side of his mother, and to see him independent now threw Peter for six. Back in those humbling days, Peter had watched Martyn as he worked on coursework through all hours of the day, with huge ear defenders or headphones depending on his current mood, and for a long time he’d been practically mute; taking weeks until he responded to any of Peter’s quiet hellos.  
Peter hadn’t thought much of Martyn’s being there, as a student himself in the holidays, until school started again. On the off chance Peter had a half day and decided to pop straight over to the Tower instead of patrolling, Martyn was always there, at his own desk beside his mother, working on coloured paper with coloured pens—

###### 

When Peter had glanced at the coursework once, he’d been astounded to find the man – who was three years his senior – was five years behind him in grades. He’d perhaps stared too long, his head thrumming with understanding, until Martyn looked up and slammed his arms across the homework, pushing his head into his folded arms. Peter left quickly, feeling awkward, as Katherine’s hand folded over Martyn’s shoulder.

A week later, Peter wandered by with one of Tony’s heavier toolkits when his eyes caught on Martyn studiously detailing a diagram of an engine for a car. “Do you want to see a real one?” asked Peter casually, noting Martyn’s headphones were beside him; Peter could easily hear the tinny music tapping at his eardrums, but he tried to tune it out like he’d been working on a lot more lately. “Mr. Stark’s Ford is in the back – it’s a _Mondeo_ – and we’ve got the engine on the table at the moment.”

Katherine looked up, and so did Martyn. He looked at her immediately, eyes blown wide and inhaling sharply through his nose, but she just smiled and nodded and placed her hand on his shoulder with the force of a rock. “You’ve been trying to sneak a glance through the doors for weeks now, haven’t you, Marty?” Katherine turned to Peter then. “I’ve told him Mr. Stark would show him the car, but-”

“I understand,” Peter interrupted, looking from Katherine to Martyn. “At least, I think I do. Martyn, right? Mr. Stark’s helping Rhodey with his physical therapy right now, and Kath is here so we can leave the door open.” When Martyn’s fingers curled around a pen, Peter carefully added, “The sketch you’ve done here is really cool! If you bring some paper with you, you could draw the Ford’s engine, and I can pull up the schematics for you, too.”

That was the day Peter re-learnt it didn’t take much to change a life. After that, Martyn opened up more, started talking, began showing off his sketches; he got a little too much occasionally, but Peter coped with it. They even did coursework together when Tony was late. Peter talked him through three grades in five months, and a few mock tests because Martyn was so incredibly smart. It was enjoyable to sit down with him and talk through his thinking; he didn’t solve everything in what was maybe the standard or the right way, and sometimes he took the long route to quote, “Look at the scenery and see what else there is.” It was a different way of thinking, but Peter didn’t see a problem in it; in fact, he noticed the quality had snuck into his own homework—or, maybe, it had always been there; maybe he’d just never had the right words to describe it.

Martyn taught him things, too, like to see past shoulders instead of looking at eyes, and that touch not feeling OK wasn’t weird, that those feelings were justified, they were real. It was OK to feel that way, just as it was OK for Peter to actually like the different feelings of hands and whose they were, to determine some were safe and others weren’t. Peter learnt just as much from Martyn as Martyn did from Peter. Talking to him wasn’t like talking to Harley or Tony—in thinking of it, the closest Peter had come to finding the same feeling was with Dr. Strange.

Then there was a day he’d come in and Martyn wasn’t there. At first, Peter had just stood there—something was different, he knew it, and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like not getting his ‘hello’. “He’s at college,” said Katherine, looking up from her paperwork. “Two days a week; still very early days, but... It’s all thanks to you, Peter,” she said, kindness softening her sharp features. “This world wasn’t built for him.”

“He can build his own,” said Peter without thinking, digging around in his bag. He placed a folder of engine schematics on Katherine’s desk; he’d gone through them and checked for dust and dirt, for stains or anything gross but the man he’d bought them from seemed as passionate about them as Martyn; he even wrapped them up especially for Peter’s journey back to Queens because of the forecasted rain. “I found these at a yard sale in Washington Heights; I thought he’d like them.”

“Thank you, Peter,” said Katherine, carefully moving them into her bag. There was more than just the politeness of accepting a gift in those words, and Peter felt himself blushing at her praise.

“Underoos!”

“Uh-oh. Gotta run, Kath—oh, I gotta field trip to MoMA tomorrow, so I won’t be in until Monday. Say hi to Marty for me!”

###### 

_God,_ thought Peter. _That was so long ago_.

“Has Harley blown up the lab lately?” asked Martyn, unaware of the emotional roller coaster Peter had just been on in his thoughts.

Peter held out his bandaged fingers. “Yesterday, actually.” He smiled sadly at Martyn. “The Ford.”

“Oh, what? Really?” Martyn’s face fell into memory and pain. “Dammit... That was the car that started it all for me, but I guess new beginnings have to happen, right?” He threw a smile in Peter’s direction, but from experience Peter knew his eyes – like Peters – were staring over his shoulder and at the back wall. “But look at you, huh? Level-0. Same level as Pepper Potts and Tony Stark—is Harley Level-0?”

“No,” Peter shook his head. “Tony gave him Level-5, but he’s got Moderator status with FRI like me and Pepper.” Talking with Martyn again felt like a breath of fresh air; they might bpth have questions, but they understood enough of one another not to ask them. The Snap, obviously, had changed Martyn; he’d grown into himself, found confidence, gone into something he was passionate about. Peter wanted to understand why he was in the OFA initiative, but in a way he did: this was Martyn building his world, showing kids the same wonders he’d experienced and helping them on their way. It was poetic.

Peter tensed suddenly, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. He turned away from Martyn, away from the table, as one CAD engineer’s phone started buzzing, and then another’s. Nearest to them, Renner’s phone started chiming with alerts. A moment later, Peter’s started going as well – a couple of pulses to signify a Breaking News alert. Martyn cleared his throat, about ready to get the class moving, when Renner dropped his phone and shouted, “Holy shit!”

“Language!” came the ceiling, and an extra dollar was added to the swear jar.

“Oh, my God!” another man, Michael, shouted from across the room, holding his phone at arm’s length to read. “Oh, my God! Stark Industries CEO Pepper Potts has just confirmed a rumour from the Secretary of Education that company owner Tony Stark has a son! Oh, my God!”

Renner was practically screaming, “I thought that was a hoax!”

“We all did!” another yelled, and she came crashing away from her table. “Is he here? In the building? Jesus Christ! How old is he? Is he Pepper’s, too? The article won’t load!”

The uproar began all at once around Peter, building into a concrete ocean surrounding him. He felt like he was stranded at sea, standing on the front of the ship as a forty-foot wave threatened to crash down onto him. Around him, voices turned into noise turned into static and he stood still amongst the ensuing chaos, as the warning of total destruction loomed over him and he found himself breathless in the face of it. His head was reading variables from all directions as his classmates caught wind and started to scramble for someone’s—anyone’s phone to see what was going on, as employees and interns started to theorise, as FRIDAY said something but Peter didn’t catch it: it sounded like the same-old ‘distress’ and ‘Peter’ and ‘you are’, but in a more intelligible order. He wasn’t a fan of being told that.

Peter raised his eyes from the floor to the ceiling. It wouldn’t be long now; he could see it working through everyone’s expressions – Renner, an overcomplicated man with a simple thought process, was no longer pointedly staring at his phone, but was taking long, sweeping glances from it and to Peter. Michael, equally overcomplicated with a simple thought process but also bad eyesight, was scrolling through the article at pace and then pulling back—and Peter could see there was a picture of Tony on it from here. He could see the CAD software engineer looking from the picture across to Peter.

It didn’t take a biologist (a geneticist? Eh) to see the similarities. It also didn’t take a genius to consider the fact Peter, a scrawny seventeen-year-old, could do so much more than he should be able to. Of course he’d heard the gossip, too, that this kid from Queens must have impressed the Boss enough for him to take Peter under his wing. In a way, that’s what happened with Spider-Man, and then the universe decided to throw a curveball. What a small place, this world is, with all the billions of people Peter could have been, but instead he was him.

He’d been jealous of Harley once, when Tony had mockingly declared they were ‘connected’. Peter was still jealous of Harley because, even if he did have a special relationship with Tony, he was still Harley Keener. He was still training to be a mechanic and, sure, he had far more connections because of Tony, and a job waiting for him at any Stark location he wanted, but he was still Harley Keener by blood and by right.

Peter, for the longest time, had been made up of everything everyone had ever told him he was and, with the coming media storm, he would continue to be. He stretched and then scratched his neck in a _way_ he’d seen Tony do – in his personal life, in the lab, with the Avengers and in interviews. It was revealing in a small manner, and when he looked at Renner and Michael, he knew they knew.

In theory, he had options. In theory, he had choices.

“—says here Stark Industries will be taking legal action against the Department for Education,” said another CAD software engineer – either Lindsey or Lucy, Peter was certain; something beginning with an ‘L’ and ending in a ‘y’. She continued, “Well, darn. I hope they do – this is terrible, especially since she signed an NDA and it involves a minor.”

“Public’s interest my ass,” said Evens, practically barking, “She’s just messed with the life of a kid! Stark’s been a darn good dad keeping his son out of the public eye, letting him live a normal life—this is the life of a private individual!”

“They won’t have a legal leg to stand on,” agreed Renner, though he was quiet, shifting his stare from Peter finally to address Martyn. “Hey, uh, maybe you guys should get on with your tour? I mean, I-I assume you still can despite... this.”

Martyn stepped forward immediately. “We can certainly try! I’m... not sure the OFA would want to deal with the paperwork for reassignment right now.” He clapped his hands and turned to Mr. Harrington and Mr. Dell. “We’ll see how far we can go – we might have to miss the legal floors and PR, but as I understand it they aren’t exactly glitzy.” Martyn kept a sure smile, but Peter could see the tour guide was definitely having second thoughts; after all, he was an employee for the DoE.

“So, where next?” asked Mr. Dell, his face pinched; it was more than obvious he didn’t exactly care for this revelation which had everyone in construction running around like headless chickens. “We going to lunch? Uh, maybe the bathrooms?”

Mr. Harrington gathered the last few stragglers and Martyn led them out into the (now bustling) hallway, trusty clipboard out once again. While Mr. Dell hobbled down to the nearest bathroom, Martyn tried to work out the next stop on the tour. “OK. So, we’ve done motor and construction... Right, OK. Last stop before lunch is testing and R&D—it’s just five floors up.”

“Testing _and_ R&D?” asked Flash, pushing to the front of the school group to see if he could glimpse Martyn’s clipboard. Mr. Harrington gestured him back into line – just in front of Peter. He accidently backed up on Peter’s shoe and jolted forwards with a chuckle and a, “Whoa, sorry, Parker—haha, didn’t see you there; you’re so quiet without your stupid friend.”

Mr. Harrington said nothing, although Martyn – who’d been about to speak – threw a look at Flash before his face morphed into one of more than just the slightest dislike. “Testing and R&D are combined in SI’s New York branch,” explained Martyn, and then he added for the lame-headed, “It makes it easier to test whatever you’ve researched and developed.”

A few snickers broke out across the group. Peter kept his head down, his hands in his pockets, glancing from one of FRIDAY’s cameras to the next. He really wanted to know what was happening upstairs, even if just to know if they really were suing the Department of Education, but asking FRIDAY wouldn’t work currently being that he was with an excitable cluster of his classmates who, in their mutters, were talking about _the Stark heir_.

Damn, if only he’d installed Karen.

Mr. Dell returned a few moments later, walking normally again, and Martyn started leading them toward the large elevators. Peter tried to hang back, to see if he could grab a moment with FRIDAY, but Mr. Harrington clocked him almost immediately and told him to stay with the group in a voice which sounded almost bored—and nervous.

When they got to the elevator, it was a case of four trips. Peter got on the first one, with Abe and Charles and Flash and Cindy and a couple others. After a short discussion, Mr. Harrington chose to go with them. He stayed silent, kept his distance, seemed to be in deep thought—but every time Peter adjusted his footing, the teacher would glance at him, something unsure sitting in his eyes, before he would look away and reread the SI poster on the wall opposite the mirror.

“Peter.”

Peter look up at FRIDAY’s cameras. He blinked a few times, although he wasn’t entirely sure Tony had programmed FRIDAY with any knowledge of Morse or tap code—not that Peter knew more than the very basics in both. Luckily, she still seemed to understand he couldn’t speak, and said, “Harley Kenner is currently in R&D.”

 _Crap_. Harley wasn’t exactly known for his tact, although he was a good reader of situations—and expressions, which was bad. Harley being anywhere near Peter’s field trip was bad because Harley knew about Flash and Mr. Harrington, and Harley—well, he didn’t like bullies. In that respect, he was a mini Captain America.

For something to do in the elevator’s silence (there wasn’t any music), Peter took out his phone and looked at the Breaking News alerts he’d ignored. For once, they weren’t about the world ending, or aliens, or intergalactic fights, or the Avengers. They weren’t about the stock exchange or a celebrity death or war.

They were all about him. A boy, a name, and a business empire. Somehow, out of everything else, that scared him far more. And he’d been to space.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Bonus**
>
>> "Do you even understand what you _did_ , Stark?" Steve sat into the chair, his arms crossed over his chest, looking between the aforementioned man and the television. "You surrendered Peter's right to choose." A pause. A breath. A silence. Then, "Just like you did with the Accords."
>> 
>> Tony set his jaw and sat forwards, moving to grip his left wrist. "You don't understand, Rogers."
>> 
>> "I think I understand plenty, Stark," Steve shot back immediately, ignoring Sam flanking him on his left. "You can't control everything. The world doesn't work that way."
>> 
>> "It's not about control, Rogers," Tony replied, the sweeping chill of the room settling, sitting into the bones of everyone there. Beside him on the sofa, drinking his tea, Mr. Strange gave an audible hum. It was confidence enough for Tony to look back at the Captain and add, "It's about protecting--it's always been about protecting. Why can't you understand that?"
>> 
>> "Tony-" Bruce tried.
>> 
>> "No." Tony gestured at him to keep quiet, swallowing around the lump in his throat. He stood up, shaking a little, needing a coffee to settle his nerves, but before he left to his private floor he faced the Captain and said, "It's not about you. It's not about me. It's legacy, and what we choose to leave behind--and you know what I want to leave behind, Cap? A _safe_ , protected world where what happened - with grape-face - that can't happen again."
>> 
>> Rogers sat there, looking up at him, and then slapped his hands on to his thighs and turned away. "What we choose and what we want is different, Stark. Don't you ever start confusing the two."
> 
> Edit/note; _Just in case anyone is still/even more confused about Martyn and his mum_ : Katherine Rennie is a character from the (Invincible? I think) Iron Man comics, acting as personal assistant/executive secretary to Tony at one point. I've personally not read the comics she's in, but when I was looking for something to tie Martyn in my comic-lord friend suggested her as she apparently played a very minor role and could be configured a bit for my own uses. 


	8. Hey Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "People rise out of the ashes because, at some point, they are invested with a belief in the possibility of triumph over seemingly impossible odds." -Robert Downey Jr.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your delightful comments last chapter ! This chapter's not as long as my usual chapters, but it's a big one for content ! I hope you enjoy !
> 
> Just some quick notes:  
> 1) I'll be doing some editing on the previous chapters over the next day or so, as I'm currently in the process of pinning down the next part of this story(!!) and there are some minor corrections I've had pointed out to me + things which didn't make a lot of sense. **You won't need to reread**. Next chapter I'll put up some notes on any major changes.  
> 2) You might have noticed Steve's character is resembling more of his Civil War persona than his post-Infinity War/Endgame persona. This is a purposeful choice to do with the handling/ratifying of the Sokovia Accords after the Endgame fight with Thanos; this story, and its subsequent one, is taking place roughly a year afterwards. While I've lightly mentioned the Accords in previous chapters, this fic is about Peter developing his character+the great and wonderful field trip trope, so I've chosen not to dive into it too much here as I don't want to divert from the story and Peter's development.  
> Thank you for understanding ! -J.
> 
> ###### 
> 
> The awesome [InformalFallacy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InformalFallacy/pseuds/InformalFallacy) has very politely made a TVTropes page for Open For All ! [Click Here!](https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Fanfic/OpenForAll) to go to it :)

R&D looked like a bomb had hit it.

That might have been the case any other time than today.

Peter stared through the window, flanked by Mr. Harrington and Cindy, as they waited on the others to come up in the elevator. He could comprehend what he was seeing, of course he could—it was a little difficult not to see the hordes of scientists, engineers, developers, researchers and interns darting about like headless chickens. It wasn’t an unusual sight to see soundless bickering and the occasional jogger, but this was next level.

The vibrations coming from the room were mad. Peter could practically feel his bones shaking. He took in a long breath and dropped a hand into his pocket, grabbing out his other earpiece. He inserted it. _Click_. “FRIDAY,” he said, startling both his teacher and his milling about classmates. “Talk to me. What am I seeing?”

“Currently, Peter, the floor is in uproar about Ms. Potts’s announcement.” A pause. “There is quite a lot of speculation. I would recommend you not to enter if you are not prepared to have your identity as Boss’ son exposed.”

_Shit_. Peter bit the inside of his cheek. “FRI, where’s Harley?” He ignored the looks he could see from the edges of his vision: Mr. Harrington was openly staring with alarm, and Cindy was gobsmacked. To his credit, Flash looked dubiously annoyed. Peter took some pleasure in that.

FRIDAY took her time to respond. “He is with Doctor Downey at present. Shall I call him for you?”

“Please,” Peter said, still confusing the others around him as the elevator _ding_ ed and announced some more of his classmates with Mr. Dell in tow. They took in the long hallway; something Peter hadn’t done in months, with gasps and gulps at the grandeur, walking in a gait which was both fast and slow across to stare through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

A couple of moments of stunned silence passed before Peter spotted Harley rushing through the madness—dodging this way and that, even scaling and launching himself off a desk when a gaggle of chattering interns blocked his way. Just as he arrived at the door and was biometrically opening it for ease of exit, an engineer accosted him, gesturing wildly and erratically, obviously on his way to a nervous breakdown.

“—ook, I’m sorry, Mackie! I’ll get to it when I get to it—an’ I have _absolutely_ no comment; all I’ll say is it’s definitely not me!” Harley barged out, tossing his head this way and that, and finally settling his eyes on- “Peter! There you are!”

“Harley,” Peter replied, exhaling an exhausted breath and continuing to breed confusion amongst the tour group who were looking paler and paler by the second. “I’m so glad to see you. R&D looks... a mess.”

“Well, when Ms. Potts decides to...” Harley slid his eyes across to the school group, and then back to Peter, blinking carefully as the gears in his head worked double time; Peter nearly burst into laughter, but managed just a small smirk instead. “Do what she did,” Harley attempted lamely, narrowing his eyes at Peter’s blatant humour. “It’s just maybe expected—Do you know where Rosendale is? Is she here? There’re engineers with crowbars in there calling for her blood...”

Peter shrugged. “I’m just here for the tour, Harley.”

“An’ how’s that going?” Harley deadpanned, flicking his eyes to Mr. Harrington—and then unto Flash. His eyes shot up immediately, snapping his head around to Peter, “Are they—?”

“Maybe,” Peter bit, teeth gritted.

Harley’s eyes narrowed further and his lips straightened into a line. He turned to the teachers, Mr. Harrington and Mr. Dell standing appropriately nervous, and said, “SI’s sorta got a _thing_ going on right now. Have you thought about rescheduling this tour? Or, you know, I hear Cross Technological Enterprises is OFA registered. Pym Tech, too.”

“They... don’t have branches in New York?” Mr. Dell replied with question lingering in his accent, his attention getting easily retaken by something in R&D.

Peter saw it, too; he was pretty sure someone had just thrown a desk chair, but he was above speculating. After all, it could have legitimately been anything: It’s R&D, after all.

Harley didn’t back down. “Oscorp, then.” He rolled his wrists and, in the ensuing silence, reached to take hold of Peter’s shoulder. Harley turned them away from the school group, who’d gone back to staring at the mess of R&D, and said in a low voice, “What the Hell?”

“I don’t know!” Peter replied, his voice breaking on high. “I-I didn’t know Pepp-”

“That’s not what I mean.” Harley snorted, removing his hands to stick them in his pockets. “I mean you’ve brought your bully – and your asshole teacher – to Tony’s Tower! The Rosendale thing is _bad_ , Peter, but you know the Avengers live here, right? _Earth’s Mightiest Heroes_?”

Peter scrunched up his nose. “Some of them aren’t so mighty, Harley.”

Harley set his jaw. “Peter.”

“I know, I know.”

Harley stamped his foot down and spat a curse into his shoulder. “SI is suing the Department of Education for violating an NDA and for exposing— _you_ —a minor,” Harley added quickly, leaning close. “Do you _really_ think it would be any skin off Tony or Pepper’s nose to sue a school? Or a teacher? For _child endangerment and abuse_? How about _harassment_ by a fellow student? Seriously, Peter.”

“My life is screwed, Harley!” Peter bit back, wincing as his elevated tone brought Betty and Jason’s attention. He lowered his voice quickly, feeling the hair on the back of his neck spiking. “I _get_ it. I don’t know what to do—how bad is it in R&D?”

“It’s pretty fucking bad,” Harley said, lips barely moving, with a glance to the ceiling. “I don’t think they’re under any misapprehension who Tony’s kid is,” he sing-songed, gesturing with his fingers at Peter. “Been a lot of talking since Pepper’s announcement...” He set a hand to his forehead. “Look, I-... I don’t know what you’re planning to-to do, Peter, but you’re gonna get accosted as soon—as soon as you step through that door.” It was such an unusual thing to hear Harley stutter that Peter paused from his latest thought process and looked at him.

It had taken a long time for Peter to be able to read Harley’s expressions; generally he closed them off, but right now the full extent of worry was on parade. He suddenly looked shattered by the predicament of the day, his body dropping forwards a few inches as the silence drew on. “Well, uh,” said Peter, breaking into their comfortable moment. “What do you suggest, Harley?”

Harley looked from Peter, to the door, to R&D: Flash and Charles were messing with the panel, two seconds away from FRIDAY telling them off. “In an ideal world I’d tell you to get your ass upstairs and wait until everything has been figured out. But in an ideal world those two idiots over there wouldn’t have made it past security.” He shoved a hand in his pocket and leant into his hip, shaking his head with a sigh. “Look, Peter, I know this wasn’t... This wasn’t what you wanted—I can see that, from what happened a few days back.” Harley turned his eyes down in mild-mannered shame. “But what’s done is done. You can either rule it or let it rule you.”

Peter raised a hand to scratch his face and cast a glance toward the elevator as Martyn appeared with the last group—Peter must have zoned out when the third group arrived. Oh well. He turned back to Harley. “I can’t leave the tour again, Harley. I don’t think FRIDAY would let me upstairs, either.”

“FRIDAY,” Harley said, hand to his own ear. “What’s Peter’s access to the penthouse?” He waited, his face falling, and then he added, “And this _isn’t_ life or death?” Rolling his eyes – and obviously getting rebuked a second later if the sudden blush was anything to go by – Harley turned his attention back to Peter and asked, “Why the Hell is Tony blocking your entrance?”

“Uh-”

“Hey, Parker! Is this your _boyfriend_?”

_Oh, God. Not a good time, Flash_. Peter turned away from the lit fire in Harley’s eyes to face the bully who’d stepped a little too close for comfort with the sensitivities of their conversation. “No, Flash,” Peter immediately placated, flicking his eyes across to where Martyn was giving details about SI’s R&D, obviously skirting around the current issue encapsulating the room. Peter, still staring across at the others so as to not have to look at either Flash or Harley, gestured vaguely in the latter’s direction. “This is Harley. We, uh, we work together – with Mr. Stark.”

“Whenever I’m not at MIT, anyway,” Harley showboated, giving Flash a cool glare. He tossed his head to Peter, who’d returned his attention to their conversation, and said, “But I’m not even an intern like Peter, anyway; I just show up sometimes and do the unpaid work part.” He attempted a smile, more for Peter’s benefit than his own.

“Parker’s not an intern,” Flash replied immediately, his eyes narrowed. “It’s all fake— _Penis_ Parker could never get an internship here – no less one with Tony Stark, even if his mouth _is_ willing,” Flash huffed, sending Harley into shocked, gaping silence. “What did he give you to stage this, huh?”

Peter blushed furiously, avoiding the snap of Harley’s head around to look at him. His hair stood on end, warning bells blaring at him like sirens. This was bad. This was _worse_ than bad. Peter swallowed around the lump in his throat and raised his eyes to Harley’s, who looked more than ready to murder Flash in that moment. “This isn’t staged, Flash,” Peter tried, setting his jaw. “And, honestly, I’m getting really tired of your bullshit.”

“Language!”

“Thanks, FRI,” Peter said to the ceiling, ignoring the way Mr. Harrington and the others flinched at Cap’s recorded tone. “If you don’t like me – fine.” He gestured his hands downwards, and then clenched his fists and stood back, tilting his chin up. “But if you care about self-preservation, you’ll shut the Hell up right now.”

“Mr. Parker!” Mr. Harrington was _suddenly_ there, with Mr. Dell and the others fast on his tail to see what the problem was. “We don’t tolerate that language toward another pupil – you should apologise right now.”

“Like Hell he will!” Harley barked, giving up his shadowing to step between Peter and the class. Harley raised a hand, tightly wrapped in a fresh bandage with a brown splodge seeping towards his thumb, and pointed it at the teacher with little regard for the discomfort he was causing. “Are you seriously going to ignore this kid is implying Peter sells himself for an internship with Tony Stark? You’re going to ignore that your student here-” Harley jabbed his thumb in Flash’s direction; offence coloured the bully’s face. “-is bullying the Boss’s ki-ki—intern? The Boss of the building you’re in? How _blind_ are you playing?”

Mr. Harrington recoiled at Harley’s spitting tone. “I’m not—I’m not _ignoring_ it. But the evidence-”

“The evidence? You want the evidence Peter works with Tony freakin’ Stark?” Harley threw his head in Peter’s direction and waved wildly. “The sweater? How about that badge?”

The teacher inhaled, flicking his eyes to the side and back again. He pushed up his glasses, fidgeted once and then said, “Badges can be bought.”

Harley burst into sharp laughter, but sobered up almost immediately, his eyes narrowing—his chin jutting out. In that moment, as Peter looked between Harley and his teacher, he saw the wilderness Harley had grown up in; the harsh reality he’d conquered and continued to fight off. He saw the dog, scarred and beaten, but still going strong. “Not SI badges,” Harley said squarely, pressing his shoulders down and back. “Look, I’m not stupid—neither is Peter—I think we both know what _you’re_ implying, and that’s sick.” Harley crossed his arms and he started to shake his head – whether it was involuntary or not, it had the look of being automatic. “You better backtrack now, because otherwise we’re gonna have problems—and we’ve got enough of those right now, in case you haven’t noticed.” He nodded in R&D’s direction.

Mr. Harrington narrowed his eyes in response. “I have every right to question-”

“You have a right to question,” Harley interrupted, planting his feet in the conversation. “But when presented with evidence – which you have been, right? People in this place aren’t exactly quiet about _knowing_ Peter, are they? – and you continue to disregard it and, you know what, _blatantly_ allow harassment.” He stood back, lifted his arms and let out a sigh, “Then we got problems, Mr...” Harley ducked his head forwards. “Harrington.”

“Roger.” Mr. Dell reached to put a hand on the other teacher’s shoulder, his voice lowered in warning.

Mr. Harrington shrugged it off and wrinkled his nose like a dog not quite sure whether something smelled bad or appetising. “And who exactly are you? Are you this kid we keep hearing about?” His stare dashed over Harley, whose face lit with surprise, and then he added, “You’re Tony Stark’s son, aren’t you?”

“Me?” Harley placed a hand on his chest. “Uh, no.” His face broke into a grin, but there was sadness there—Peter could see it, could see the wavering confidence Harley was displaying too openly now, his persona deflating slightly. “My dad left for scratches when I was a kid – well, he probably won because he never came back. I know Mr. Stark very well – he’s the reason I’m at MIT and won’t have any debt, and the reason I’ve got a job lined up straight outta college in one of the biggest tech companies in the world.” Harley gestured at their surroundings. “But I’m not his son. I...” Harley cut himself off and threw too-quick-a-glance at Peter.

Peter’s mouth ballooned. Harley shut his expression down. “I’m Harley Keener. I’m... just a kid from Tennessee.” He swallowed. “Now, if anyone here should be apologising—it’s that asshole. Not Peter. We can keep chewin’ the fat as long as you want, but it’s not going to change a thing.”

Discomfort coloured Mr. Harrington’s expression. He threw Flash a look as Martyn twiddled his thumbs to their right, looking from Harley to Peter. “Flash,” Mr. Harrington said, finally, and he gestured vaguely in Peter’s direction. “Apologise to Peter.”

“What? No!” Flash laughed, his smart face twisting into one of disbelief. “I’m not apologising to Penis Parker!”

“Flash-”

“Kid,” Harley bit out, pivoting. He strode right up to Flash, stood in his face and said, “You are on thin _fucking_ ice right now. Apologise, stay out of the way, and all of this can-” Harley snapped his fingers. Nearly everyone flinched or gasped, all too familiar with the recent past. Harley barged onwards. “All of this can go away just like that. Maybe Mr. Tony Stark won’t even get you blacklisted from every respectable university and college in the country.”

Flash let out a laugh. “You’re bluffing.”

“Wanna take that chance?” Harley stepped back and pulled out his earbuds. “FRIDAY.”

There wasn’t even a pause before she spoke from the ceiling. “Hello. How can I be of assistance, Harley?” The Irish lilt of the AI’s accent fluffed, a measure of happiness infiltrating her tone.

“Is Mr. Stark doing anything right now?” Harley continued, his eyes set on Flash’s—which were quickly widening, his breaths gone huffy. His mouth started to move, but no words came out.

“Boss is currently with Pepper Potts and Doctor Stephen Strange. Would you like me to patch you through?”

Peter, from his side-view, saw Harley’s face split into a huge smirk as Flash started fumbling with his words. A second later, Peter realised: _This is cruel_ , he thought, looking from his classmates’ faces to his teachers’, and then to Martyn who looked practically on the edge of a breakdown; his tour, his world, was going askew. Although part of Peter wanted this, wanted Flash put in his place—and Mr. Harrington, too—he also wanted it done in the right way. He wanted it done in a way which wasn’t humiliating – he knew that feeling himself; he hated that feeling and, actually, wasn’t wholly comfortable of putting someone else through it to his benefit. All the helplessness which came with it, and the grating, constant pressure on his heart from the torments...

Peter was above that. This wasn’t the way to deal with his problems – running to Harley and Mr. Stark and making Flash pay for the rest of his life. Mr. Harrington needed a talking to, and he needed help, needed to be reminded he was a man in a position of power. He didn’t deserve to lose his job (well, maybe suspended for a while), or face jail. The messed up world was to blame for the changes in him, as it was for so many others.

It didn’t escape Peter he was, at the very least, partly to blame for the mess of the world. “Harley,” Peter said, reaching to thump his hand on the other’s shoulder. “Wait. Don’t call Mr. Stark.”

Harley swung around to face Peter, confusion swarming the gentle colour of his eyes. “What? Peter-”

“Flash.” Peter turned to his classmate; the fear in his face, in his eyes, was more than just apparent. He was nearly in tears, seeing the future he wanted – like so many wanted – possibly going up in flames. To be blacklisted by Tony Stark? God, that would be a thing, wouldn’t it? That was a way to wreck someone’s life – professionally and personally. “Flash.”

“Parker,” Flash replied, but there was no bite to it, looking from Peter to Harley—he hiccupped suddenly, and tears wetted his lashes. “Pe—Peter.”

_C’mon. I’m giving you an out. Please, please take it_. Peter turned his back on Harley and stared at Flash with subtle pleading. “I know you don’t like me-”

“Mr. Parker-” Mr. Harrington tried to interject, but Mr. Dell and Martyn shushed him.

“I.” Flash’s voice broke on the first word, his entire body shaking. “I—I...”

Peter inhaled through his nose. He cast a glance at the ceiling as FRIDAY repeated her question to Harley, “Would you like me to patch Boss through?” Harley didn’t answer, his mouth practically wired shut as he watched Peter’s handling of the situation.

Pressing a sigh out through his teeth, Peter removed his earpieces and said, “No, FRIDAY.” He turned back to Flash, saw him grinding his teeth and raking a hand through his hair. Peter was above this, was above making someone do this—have this reaction. It didn’t need to happen—but... maybe it also did. God. This was all—this was just so messed up. “Flash. Please—I...” Peter inhaled and exhaled, stepping towards him, holding out a hand – an olive branch. _Please, just say you’re sorry_. He couldn’t stop Harley if he decided to go further with this, but...

But Peter could come out the bigger person of all of them.

Peter shut his eyes and gathered some of his Spider-Man confidence, relishing in the prickling of it in his fingers. He opened his eyes, swapped his weakness for strength, and said, “Flash, I want to forgive you.”

Silence.

All the built-up tension in Flash’s body flooded out of him and he started swallowing as titbit tears started to dot his flushed cheeks. “I...” He inhaled, threw a glance at Charles’s face – cast in shadow, in doubt, obviously thinking on his own actions – and then turned back to Peter. Flash straightened his posture, his spine, and when their eyes met Peter had to throw his stare on the windows behind Flash’s shoulder but he could still see the remorse settled there, sitting on the wall bordering panic and total breakdown. “I’m... sorry. I...”

“That’s all I wanted.” Peter dropped his hand, not keen on having the contact anyway, and then turned to Harley with a firm nod. “There. He did it.”

Harley was staring at him, and for a moment Peter saw open disapproval there in his darkened irises, his jaw clenched and teeth pressing together in a tight line. He had his arms crossed, his rough fingers gripping into his exposed flesh. But then it was gone, evened out into a neutral expression of something nearing dismissive.

Peter couldn’t remember having ever seen Harley make such a face before, or hold his posture like a wall. He’d seen it done by someone else though, and his heart leapt into his throat when he realised it was almost too close to how Steve had begun staring at Tony since the new Accords had been ratified.

“He did,” said Harley, nodding slowly and controlled. He flicked his eyes to Mr. Harrington. “Don’t think you’ve gotten away with this, Harrington.” The dog was back, and his bark was just as bad as his bite. “FRIDAY is active in every part of this building, and she knows Peter isn’t one to report bad behaviour.”

“Harley,” Peter tried, turning to him, but Harley raised a silencing hand and narrowed his eyes.

“Peter,” Harley said. He opened his mouth, shut it, and then shook his head. The conscious silence between them was heavy—too heavy, and Peter waited desperately for Harley to say something, anything.

“Harley,” came FRIDAY’s voice suddenly, sounding a little bemused herself. “Automotive is asking for your help.”

“Thanks, FRIDAY,” Harley replied immediately, turning his eyes from Peter to the ceiling with a nod at her camera. He turned, eyes falling on Martyn, and repressed a smile. “You better get back to your field trip, huh? R&D’s right there. Waiting for you all.”

“Ah, you’re right,” Martyn said too quickly, the tension even apparent to him. “Yes. That’s a good idea—Uh, Charles – right? OK. Why don’t you take Flash to that bathroom just down the hall?” When Charles looked like he might argue, the tour guide said, “He might need a friend right now.”

“Uh.” Charles nodded then and walked quickly over to take Flash by the elbow, throwing a stare – nearing respectful – in Peter’s direction, before tugging Flash down the hall.

Martyn called, “I’ll be waiting outside to let you in when you come back.”

As Mr. Dell and Mr. Harrington started to harry the students towards the doors to R&D. Peter waited a moment, a little gobsmacked by the last five minutes, and then swallowed down the spit pooling in his mouth, feeling his stomach churn with a bad, _bad_ feeling. As he turned to go with his classmates, a hand grasped his wrist and tugged him back around.

He knew who it was immediately. “Harley.”

“Peter.” Harley opened his mouth, closed it again; a repeat.

“I’m sorry, Harley, but I couldn’t-”

“You’re right. You couldn’t.” Peter looked up and into Harley’s eyes, but what he saw there wasn’t what he wanted to see: a dark, pitying look, something tired. “You’ve a martyr’s spirit, Peter,” he said cautiously, dropping his hold and turning away. He pressed his shoulders back and tilted his head up, inhaling. On his first step toward the elevator, Harley let out a small laugh and threw a glance over his shoulder, smirked and said joylessly, “You really are a Stark.”

###### 

Peter stepped into the mess of R&D – a little less of one, now, but there was still plenty of commotion and a lot of voices talking which didn’t need to be talking. Something had hollowed his belly, some words he’d heard but wasn’t sure were real. A person he knew, a young man his age and his match, and yet something in those eyes had Peter walking backwards, getting away from him, running from someone he’d once run to. The feeling sitting in his gut wasn’t a good one; with every step, he thought he might be sick.

The silence sweeping through the room didn’t help that feeling.

Peter clenched his slack jaw, rising in his hips to look around at all the faces – all familiar – all looking on him with something like hunger in their eyes; something relishing and riveting. They had the look of men on the edge of the world, watching the final colliding of the Universe.

_Dread it_ , Peter’s memory whispered. He resisted the urge to bite his lip, the urge to— _run from it_ continued his head, as his classmates looked on in a hybrid form of confusion and wonderment at the sudden stop of the room. Many eyes looked upon Peter, as questions were asked and answered in the same breath, as the beatings of a hundred hearts filled his ears and he felt the pulses of energy battering him from all directions.

And then the clapping began. One person in the back – Doctor Downey by the sounds of the _whoop_ – and then another, and another after that—a domino effect surrounding him, a cajole of voices raised in tandem, and Peter started laughing, nervously at first, and then he was blushing a deep red and finding himself on the edge of something he wasn’t sure of as R&D looked on him with confident respect and something like dangerous fear— _is it better to be feared, or respected? Why not both?_ as the famous quote goes—and then something clicked and they were all too aware of themselves as they _knew_. Suddenly. They _knew_.

_Destiny still arrives all the same_ , Peter’s head finished just as voices rose in a triumphant cheer—

“ _PETER STARK! PETER STARK! PETER STARK!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Bonus**
>
>> Tony pressed his thumb over his phone, swiping away every other notification asking for comment about the ‘Stark Heir’, consciously ignoring the bright-eyed look of the man beside him. Stephen knew exactly how to press his buttons, especially when he didn’t want them pressed.
>> 
>> He looked up when he heard his name from the doorway. “Miss Potts,” Tony greeted his wife, sitting up a little from his slouched position on the sofa. He turned his eyes away when he saw the stack of paperwork she was carrying over. “Gosh, Ms. Potts – is that for me? You shouldn’t have.”
>> 
>> “Please, Pepper, let me help you with that,” breathed Stephen. Tony threw him a quizzical look, and then stopped; the look on his face was almost close to panic. The Wizard added as he took the papers, “You shouldn’t be carrying anything quite this heavy right now.”
>> 
>> Tony raised an eyebrow and looked up from the article he’d mistakenly pressed in his haste to swipe it away; his eyes had caught on a confused sentence and he was _so close_ to sending them a correction, but instead he just exited out and pocketed his phone, turning his attention to the odd interaction. “Everything all right there, Bleecker Street?”
>> 
>> “Tony, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” Stephen shushed, as he placed the paperwork down with a shake of his hands and then turned back to Pepper, clasping his palms together. “Oh, my dear – congratulations. How far along are you?”
>> 
>> _How far along what now?_ “Whoa – hang on. Pep—what? You aren’t pregnant?” Tony looked from Stephen’s face to Pepper’s, her eyebrows drew upwards and her parted mouth came together in a small, humbling smile. Tony baulked. “You’re pregnant? Since when? When was I going to hear about this? I—I think I probably should have heard about this.” He stood up, pushing passed Stephen – who stepped aside with an amused expression – to reach her, take her face in his hands and let out a quick, audible breath. “You’re pregnant!”


	9. This is why we can't have nice things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > It struck Peter suddenly, as Tony continued to talk about fictional rich kids’ dogs, that this was the moment it really dawned on Tony he was a father with a kid to protect. And Peter was that kid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _*Leaves out new chapter and basket of apology apples*_  
>  Sorry this took so long ! I've had personal stuff.
> 
> Thank you for all the love on the last chapter ! You might have noticed this is now part of a series called **The Stories that Make Us**. Look out for the upcoming special ;) -J
> 
> I've edited up to part 5; there is still more to do but I've decided for now to get this written in full before I double back. The important changes to note:  
> 1) Bruce Banner is now 100% Smart Hulk.  
> 2) Tony bought back the Tower during the financial crash resulting from and because of the Snap.
> 
> ###### 
> 
> The awesome [InformalFallacy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InformalFallacy/pseuds/InformalFallacy) has very politely made a TVTropes page for Open For All ! [Click Here!](https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Fanfic/OpenForAll) to go to it :)

“Kid!”

Peter looked up instantly at the voice, his eyes catching on dark hair and dark glasses, a tee-shirt which had seen better days and an expression of cool indifference to the hordes of people beginning to gape. Tony Stark practically parted the bustling waves of the cafeteria to arrive at Peter’s table he was sharing with Martyn, Mr. Dell, Betty and Jason and a few other kids.

Now, Tony Stark could have been referring to any kid; an intern, a lab assistant, a young cook. But anyone who knew anything about him also knew he was only interested in _his_ kid: Peter. Though the parental allegations were new, the nickname and the sentiment behind it certainly weren’t.

Frankly, it was a wonder no one had cottoned on before now.

“I’ve been texting you nonstop,” Tony berated, sliding off his sunglasses and causing the entire rest of the table – and those in the surrounding area – to gawk at Mr.- Dr.- at Tony Stark’s almost casual emergence in the employee dining hall (where Peter had suggested they go after the R&D incident).

Which hadn’t really been an incident as such, but Peter was floundering for what words he could use to describe it otherwise. After the clapping and the _other thing_ happened, several of R&D’s scientists had crowded him to voice their support for the Stark family and their disapproval for Maria Rosendale’s actions. Harley had been perfectly right when he mentioned some of them were out for blood – one, a researcher by the name of Johansson, actually _did_ have a crowbar under her desk.

For now, Peter ignored that—but he realised he should probably tell someone.

As his classmates bemusedly went about their learning, and had to practically beg in some cases to be given a moment of time to ask what the R&D scientists were doing or who certain people were (Betty was the best at this; she didn’t let them get away from her and produced a handy-dandy booklet of thoroughly-researched questions as soon as she had their attention), Peter had stood in the mess of everything else and continued having to verify who he was—that he was actually Peter B. Parker-Stark (he did have to correct them a few times, especially after the clapping and the cheering). Although it really, _really_ wasn’t how he wanted to do it, the nerves started falling off of him quicker with every confirmation he gave and he was thankful for every time they solemnly swore not to babble off to the media ( _Cross their heart and hope to fly, like Iron Man up in the sky_ ).

After all, Stark Industries was a good place to work with lots of employee benefits and exceptional wages for the industry; no one was going to be stupid enough to risk that, especially when there was an AI keeping watch over all their internet usage. Peter tried desperately to have and continue his Spider-Man confidence with each reintroduction to someone in the department. “Guys, please, you know I’m just Peter.” That got a real holler of laughter.

The leftover tension in the department practically melted at that point. Of course, his classmates were still just very confused by everything—his teachers more-so. Peter didn’t think Mr. Dell had breathed in the last five minutes, or closed his gaping mouth, and Mr. Harrington was being surprisingly quiet and distant, chatting to someone in the far corner about something they were researching.

Peter really wanted to trust Mr. Harrington believed him now, but it was still on the edge of his thoughts that there was no way Tony was letting the teacher leave without having words about his behaviour. Peter loved Midtown, despite its faults and Spanish class. He wanted to complete his senior year, but at the same time he knew Tony would not think twice to pull him out and have tutors; he’d threatened it once or twice before when Peter had completed his homework in half an hour, citing that obviously it was too easy and Peter was not being challenged.

In all honesty, he didn’t really want to be challenged right now; being who he was was definitely enough.

Especially after this... carnival of errors? Festival of awkward discussions? Fiesta of fatefully-brief and poorly-thought-out decisions?

Eh: Shitshow?

R&D was always a fun time, though; it was where Peter normally spent his time if he wasn’t in Tony’s lab. There was always something going on; some new idea, some new influence, and some new catchy song from someone’s headphones they’d somehow managed to not plug into their setup properly. It seemed to be a running joke nowadays more than someone actually being forgetful.

Somehow, Peter managed to escape from the piles of people around him and actually got to have a look around; he’d not been to R&D in the last week and a bit, so there were some new concepts dotted around. He started shadowing Martyn after a while, content to hang out in the tour guide’s shade and observe while fixing a couple of peoples’ notes—if he was here, he might as well get some work done—but there did seem to be a reluctance, Peter noticed, when someone asked him for input.

He hadn’t considered this would be a problem—that now they’d figured out who he was, they were suddenly so _scared_ of his judgement or of ‘wasting’ his time, as one intern put it. Peter reassured five different developers in ten minutes their work was valued and their job secure. “As long as no one talks to the media,” Peter said to one, half-joking, and she’d practically begun shaking in terror.

Peter backed off after that. He checked and corrected a measurement when asked by a somewhat new intern – Olsen, he gathered – but otherwise kept himself to himself, parking up near a desk to simply chat while his classmates continued their rounds until lunch time.

Before they could leave, though, Doctor Hemsworth popped up with a clipboard; the Aussie was an impressively-built man, a once fitness instructor turned professor before he got bored with teaching people. Now, he headed up Stark Industries’ R&D as a unit of professionals and organised the best department parties in his spare time. “Uh, Peter’s class—hi—before you leave, I just need to confirm this—Peter.” He held out the clipboard.

Peter took it, his class standing back, and read through the quickly-written NDA in regards to—well, him. “It looks good,” he said, nodding slowly. “You’ll probably want to mass-send it to Pepper with a tick-box list of everyone here.”

“Ah, now that’s the input I needed!” Doctor Hemsworth hummed, drawing the clipboard into his chest with a polite smile. “Thank you, young Peter—and I know you’ve heard it from many of us already but on behalf of everyone here, you have our support in whatever direction you take.”

“Oh, uh—Thank you, Doctor,” Peter said, beaming and then, in a show of too much confidence and not enough foresight, he raised his voice to the room, “Thanks, guys! See you later!”

A couple more cheers were sung and then Martyn drew them away to go to lunch. Peter, immediately, saw the issue in them going to the normal cafeteria: it would likely be swarming with press and he couldn’t risk that currently; not when R&D had worked out the heir was him without seemingly any contribution from him or Harley (supposedly). He authorised his class to go to the upper cafeteria, which was usually staff only (yes, it was a little imbalanced to not have everyone eating in the same place, but there were several hundred people working in one building with tour groups, press, and high-profile investors coming in on the daily, too; it would be terribly overcrowded in one lunch hall). There was definitely less of a chance someone would leak his status in the upper floors: their jobs were much too expensive to jeopardise.

So, anyway; that was R&D. That was also half-an-hour ago. The present comes screeching—

And the present was Tony asking why Peter hadn’t responded to his texts or phone calls.

Peter fished his phone out from his pocket and slid his thumb down the back. He winced when the screen came on: fifteen missed calls and forty-three text messages. “Oh, uh... I think I muted it.” Peter turned his face up to Tony and, gave him what MJ called his ‘ _cross between a dumb and a currently-in-crisis smile_ ’.

Tony stared at him like he was a ( ~~loveable~~ ) idiot. “Oh, you did, huh? On possibly the worst da—You _mute your phone_?” He raked a hand through his hair with a long-suffering groan and then shook his head, making an ‘up’ gesture with his fingers as he turned. “Never mind, kid. C’mon, we gotta go.”

“Uh.”

“Uh?” Tony spun back around. “Uh? Uh, what? What’s the problem? Pete, I’ll tell you the problem—the problem is there’s a group of reporters downstairs and there’s only so long SI can leave this without a comment.”

“But, Mr...” Peter trailed off, turning his chair around so he wasn’t facing Mr. Dell’s gaping mouth. “Tony. I’m, uh, I’m on my field trip and I-uh-I don’t think I can really, really leave?”

Tony blinked at him—a spark in his eye, a small gleam of love erupting to fill the empty void, before he condensed it and shook himself out the reverie. “You... have your field trip,” Tony repeated in not so many words, his eyebrows rising with slanted disbelief. “Pete, let me remind you: You’re going to inherit this place.”

A few people gasped at the confirmation.

“I know!” Peter replied, whining inwardly at the pitch of his voice; he didn’t need to look around to know everyone was watching them, all likely with the same or a similar expression to Mr. Dell’s: here they were, witnessing a father and his- _son_ quarrelling, and that father and his son were Tony Stark and Peter Parker. This was practically a sitcom with the direction it was taking. “I-I just—Tony. I just-”

Tony stood back, leaning into his hip. He raised a hand to his face and scratched his beard. “You just what, kid? You just want a car? You just want a—I dunno, a dog? Do you want a dog? Do you want a dog like the one from _Richie Rich_? With all the dollar signs on it? What was its name? Green? Dollar—I think – no, that’s it. Dollar. Do you want a dog called Dollar?”

Peter knew what this was: this ‘word-vomiting’ was Tony panicking. This was him trying to bring up pictures and imagery to take his mind – and everyone else’s – off of the real issues, the problems—this was him realising the next few weeks (months? Years?) were going to be a PR nightmare, and he was theoretically to blame for it all. This was Tony realising the monumental task before him.

It struck Peter suddenly, as Tony continued to talk about fictional rich kids’ dogs, that this was the moment it really dawned on Tony he was a father with a kid to protect. And Peter was that kid.

“Tony,” Peter butted in abruptly, taking a sweeping glance at his table—catching Jason’s eye briefly as he got up and grabbed Tony’s sleeve to begin pulling him towards the hallway. A few employees followed them, got close, and were crowding in with unlatched jaws and wide eyes. Thankfully, none of them actually followed Peter and Tony out into the hallway itself, just stared out the slowly closing doors. “Tony,” Peter repeated, dropping his hold, as the older man walked a couple more paces and continued to babble into his closed fist. “Tony—please, will you listen to me?”

At those words, Tony paused. He pivoted on his toe and removed the hand from his mouth.

“I just want a field trip,” Peter told him, shutting his eyes. “I just want to have a field trip where nothing blows up that’s not meant to—I want a trip where I don’t have to save my friends, where there aren’t terrorists smuggling alien equipment on to the black market, I want-” Peter quietened his voice, “I want a trip where I don’t get bitten by an experimental spider and get some weird superpowers—a trip that doesn’t end in me on a planet somewhere becoming... you know...”

Tony’s breathing hitched; it wouldn’t have been audible to many people, but Peter wasn’t one of the many: he was one of the few. “We’ve... We’ve never talked about that, Pete.”

“We haven’t,” Peter agreed. “I’d... I’d like to, at some point, whenever you’ve got the time. I think...” He opened his mouth, paused, and then bit down the excuse. “I think I want help – I want to talk to someone.”

Slow, paced footsteps trailed towards him; if it wasn’t for the irregular heartbeat, he wouldn’t have maybe placed it as Tony—because Tony Stark did not walk slowly. Tony Stark also did not place his hands on either side of Peter’s cheeks and lean down to press a kiss between the folds of his hair, but that’s exactly what he was doing. “Yeah,” Tony sighed, breathed in, and then added, “I think we both need that, Pete. I actually tried it with Bruce once-”

“Bruce?” Peter butted in, opening his eyes to see Tony had crouched down a little—not much; they were so much the same height already. “He’s not that sort of Doctor?”

“Yeah, I know kid; he told me just as much,” Tony chuckled, but the sound was hollow. He ruffled Peter’s hair. “We’ll talk – we’ll talk when today’s over, OK? There’s... actually quite a bit to talk about.” He brought a confused Peter into a hug, the pressure grounding them both in the moment. When he pulled back, Tony gave his trademark smile and said, “So, you just want a field trip?”

Peter nodded, but then stopped. “No,” he said, considering, turning his nose up. “I want time, too – I want time to think about what I want, and I want you to respect that.”

Tony raised his eyebrows, sitting back on his heels. “Has Pep been giving you lessons in negotiation, kiddo?” He threw his eyes to the ceiling, thinking. “You can have that Pete – of course you can. But this has to work for both of us, OK?”

“Sure.” Peter stuck both hands in his hoodie’s pocket, crossing his fingers. He tried to wipe the anxiety off his face, which was easier said than done. “What do you want, Tony?”

“Well, first: I want you to keep calling me Tony, and maybe one day, when you’re ready, we can upgrade that—if you want,” said Tony, though there was plenty of humour in his tone and he was smiling. “Second, I want us to communicate on whatever – OK? I think we’re pretty good already, but there’s obviously some deep rooted stuff we aren’t saying.”

“Only if you’ll talk to me, too,” said Peter immediately, breaking into Tony’s line of thought, but causing the older man’s smile to soften. “About everything—about what happened earlier with... with Steve.”

Tony shut down his smile, then, and his eyes spoke more than he did. He looked away. “I want one more thing.”

Peter waited.

Looking at Peter, Tony carefully drew a hand forward to place on his cheek. “When you’re ready, Pete, I want to tell the whole goddamn world you’re my son.”

###### 

“So, you’re really Tony Stark’s son?” asked Abe, bouncing along beside Peter. “You’re really out of his loins?”

Peter paused in his step to give the other teenager a conflicted look, his lips pursed into a frown. “I... guess that’s one way of putting it.” He continued on, pushing past Cindy and Betty to walk nearer the front—subsequently, that also meant walking nearer to Flash and Mr. Harrington. When Mr. Dell, the closer of the two teachers to Peter, glanced his way he practically leapt into the air. “Hi, Mr. Dell,” Peter said, smoothing his expression into a docile smile; Martyn was chatting about their next destination – the Bio Labs – to Mr. Harrington, and he looked almost more invested than most interns tended to get on their first week, so Peter didn’t see the issue in making casual conversation for a minute.

If that was even a possibility anymore.

“Hi, Pe—uh, Mr. Par—uh, Mr. Stark...?” Mr. Dell looked at him, his eyes just slightly wider than usual.

“Just Peter is fine, Mr. Dell,” Peter said, pressing down his shoulders purposefully to avoid them falling under the burden. “I’m-I’m still just... Peter – really.”

“Except you totally aren’t _just Peter_ , my man!” Jason came up beside him like a wayward flare and nudged him with his elbow. “You’re Tony Stark’s mother-effin’ kid! You’re a billionaire.” He slung his arm heavily over Peter’s shoulder.

“Can I interview you?” Betty appeared at his other side, sweeping in between Mr. Dell and Peter. Her clean face was practically glowing. “I mean, like, when you admit to it—I can’t believe I’m getting first dibs on this! Ohmygod, ohmygod!” She squealed into her palms.

Peter forced a smile and shrugged out of the hold Jason had on him. “Really, guys, I am just Peter Parker—same as I’ve always been, same as I’ll always be.” His phone, newly unmuted, buzzed a few times in his pocket and he dipped a hand in to collect it, swiping his thumb down the back.

“Whoa! Is that the new model S8?” Charles gasped, popping up beside him suddenly.

Peter took a step to the left, minding Betty just about, and blinked a few times at his old friend. The blush creeping up his neck was probably too visible as he made himself smile again – _just like Pepper taught me. Just like Pepper taught me. Media smile. Media smile_ – and gave a nod. “Uh, yeah – I’m a tester for it since, well, I can just—I can just drop down to the department and...”

“Wait!” Cindy was next up to his side, followed by one of Mr. Dell’s students – Sarah, was it? – and they were both looking at him with something like admiration, but there was a hunger there; something deep and dark and fascinated. “Don’t you live in Queens? What about your Aunt?”

Sickness churned in Peter’s stomach. He opened his mouth to reply, but then stopped short and turned his head down to his phone. Peter glanced at his texts – nothing he needed to commit to – and then put the phone away, keeping a grip on it; although he trusted his classmates (to a degree) and he knew FRIDAY would not let anything be stolen from him—and the phone itself would alert him if anyone tried to grab it—he needed the grounding, the swiping of his finger over the black screen.

“She’s... She’s been ill for a long time,” Peter lied, looking away. He bit the inside of his cheek. “She’s in... intensive care.”

“Oh, Peter,” Cindy cooed. “I’m so sorry! Will she be OK?”

Peter sucked in a breath, his mouth ballooning in that habitual way he was still denying was the case, and shook his head wordlessly.

Betty, Sarah and Cindy sniffled. Jason and Charles gave him a few pats on the back.

+

They arrived at the Bio Labs in haste; it was only three floors up. Peter was happy for the great spread of the Labs, taking up an entire floor; he could get lost from his classmates for a few minutes, maybe do some work. As he often didn’t get to the Bio Labs, despite his renewed interest in the subject, there were a few scientists he wanted to grab a word with: Doctor Ruffalo, Doctor Banner’s aloft assistant, and Doctor Norton could probably answer the question, too.

(Norton had been Banner’s assistant before Ruffalo, but apparently there were creative differences which caused them to drift).

Of course, this all depended on if Peter could actually get in the door without immediate notice. In SI, news travels fast—and, despite the Bio Lab’s obvious reclusion from other departments, the predicament of Peter’s parentage hadn’t escaped notice. As soon as they arrived on the other side of the glass from the main lab (the one where hazmat suits were required), the scientists inside abruptly stopped their working to give Peter another round of applause. It was eerily silent watching it from the viewing chamber.

The rest of the lab was no better. Martyn had to request them to enter and from the other side of the telecom Peter heard squealing—evidently, they’d heard he was with an OFA tour group. Despite his reservations from the beginning, Martyn himself seemed to be actively enjoying the tension dispersing from his tour, giving him time to ask his own questions he’d hastily written at lunch.

Peter distanced himself from his classmates as he’d wanted to, but more to let them actually enjoy their time in the lab. Everywhere he went with them, the scientists’ attention automatically drew to him and they began their praise and support and—well, everything good, but it didn’t escape Peter’s notice he was perhaps spoiling the tour a little for everyone else. After all, there was a report to write after this and if the only thing anyone could write was: “ _Found out one of my classmates is a billionaire in the biggest celebrity leak since Chris Pratt’s shoesize_.” Well...

Then again, with how hard Stark Industries were likely going to hit Maria Rosendale in the courts, there might not even be a Department for Education by the end of the school year.

Managing to avoid most interactions, Peter skimmed through the Bio Labs with familiar lonesomeness, reacquainting himself with the pathways to the various lit-up areas. Bio Labs took up the entire twentieth floor, with a boxing of offices above it, too. Doctor Banner’s lab was at the back, and for now Peter avoided it; he had no doubt his class were going to end up there at some point, and for now he’d rather like to find the other two scientists.

Doctor Norton was easy to locate; mess tended to follow him everywhere, and a path of broken vials led Peter straight to him. “Dr. Norton,” he greeted, though didn’t take the offered handshake.

“Peter! Ah, I always thought there was something about you,” Dr. Norton chuckled, not taking offence at his handshake rejection; most people were cautious in shaking anyone’s hand when they worked seven hours a day around everything biological. “Just so you know, the Starks have my full support in this – ... awkward matter.” He searched for the right words, but ended up settling. “I know you’ve likely heard that a hundred times already, but best to stay on your side!” Dr. Norton laughed at his own words and leant precariously back against the table he was working at, knocking something on to his paperwork. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“Dr. Norton...” Peter gestured at the cup.

The doctor turned his head and gave a tut, flapping his wrist dismissively. “Ah, just my cocoa. Drat.”

“Why...” Peter blinked at the seeping liquid. “Why is it _orange_?”

Dr. Norton crossed his arms and shrugged. “Science.” He pressed a smile on to his face then, and said, “Anyway, c’mon, I’m not paid to chat nonsense!”

Peter spent a few minutes asking his questions, and then departed to let Dr. Norton continue his research – apparently into the medicinal cocoa which... sounded ultimately disgusting. Why ruin cocoa?

Retracing his steps, Peter ran into Dr. Ruffalo more by accident than by design. The man, a little bit of a fumbler and with a scary physical similarity to Dr. Banner pre-Smart Hulk, gasped when Peter turned a corner and walked straight into him – the scenario reminiscent of that morning’s unintentional meeting with Secretary Rosendale. He grasped Peter’s shoulder, although he was at no risk of falling with his enhanced strength. “Peter!”

“Dr. Ruffalo.” Peter smiled, and he quickly started to flutter his hands. “Be-before you say anything – yes, I am who everyone is talking about and thank you for not outing me to the media.”

Dr. Ruffalo blinked at him, raising an eyebrow. “I’m... not following...”

“Oh. You haven’t heard – oh, that’s fine. Actually, that’s really good—I just want to enjoy my field trip, so that’s fine by me. Good.”

“OK? OK. Uh, should I be—No. OK.”

Peter snorted, patting the man’s hand off his shoulder—his grip was impressive for a guy who never seemed to leave the lab. “Hey, I actually have some questions—about college. I just spoke to Dr. Norton, and I was hoping I could ask you, too?”

Dr. Ruffalo’s eyes sparked. “Sure, Peter! Your questions are always interesting—I just had a kid ask me what the benefits of vitamin D are, so... I’m pretty starved of good chat!”

Well, that was done. Peter could pretty much write up his report now. It hadn’t been anything he was dreading, especially now there was no hiding who he was, but he’d rather have not had to pop down tomorrow (Saturday, when anyone who was working was exhausted and their mind was on the money pot) and badger anyone for a pointless interview. He’d managed to get a few good questions in, had recorded them on his phone to transcribe later (because he could, and he hadn’t been given one of those silly notebooks like everyone else), and even had a moment to ask if Dr. Ruffalo had any good college recommendations—the answer, of course:

“Penn State—or why not Culver University.”

Peter snorted at the memory, making his way back through to find his classmates; Martyn was speaking loudly, addressing someone, so there wasn’t much need for searching. A scientist—an intern, actually—was giving a quick Q&A session about interning at Stark Industries.

“So, do you actually take kids from High School?” asked Flash, his confidence newly restored. “Or is Peter just special because he’s a Stark? Isn’t that favouritism?”

The intern looked at Flash with brisk surprise before turning his head to Peter—and Peter recognised him immediately: it was Holland, one of friends in the department. “Hey, man!” Peter butted in, flushed with happiness at seeing his doppelganger; thankfully, despite their lookalike potential, Holland was older than him, a bit taller, and he’d recently shaved his hair all neat, so the confusions between them nowadays were minimal.

“Peter!” Holland laughed, hopping off his chair to give him a high-five. “How couldn’t you tell me, dude? I thought we were mates! I helped you out on that biology test!”

The intern’s Britishness swept through his accent with laughter at seeing the sudden panic on Peter’s expression—because dammit you don’t say those sorta things when there are teachers present!—Peter’s blush turned his cheeks a rosier red than they’d been all day.

Flash cleared his throat.

“Sorry, sorry.” Holland drew back and tossed Flash a grin. “It’s definitely not favouritism. Peter was interning with Mr. Stark before the Snap; he’s just hella smart.” He touched his chin in thought, eyes to the ceiling. “Last I checked, SI doesn’t normally allow high school kids to intern here but you could apply and see what happens; maybe they’ll pop you on a waiting list if they like your stuff.” Throwing a look at Peter, Holland asked him, “Anything you wanna add? Some secret?”

“Nope,” Peter replied, shaking his head. “Mr. Stark came to me, actually—after that, uh, national science and robotics fair. You know big companies always have someone there as a scout.”

“Is that what happened, Peter?” Mr. Harrington asked, surprise filtering through his tone. Behind his spindly glasses, he actually looked mildly impressed. “I hadn’t even realised—all those years ago, really? The one-”

“Yeah, I was the youngest there,” Peter tried to conclude, clenching his hands into fists at his sides. “This shady-looking guy in glasses came up and asked for my name and stuff, and it snowballed from there. Tony offered me the internship with him – so, it’s really more a personal one than an SI registered one, though I’m in the system for ease of access and, uh, the other thing...”

A beat of silence contained them momentarily, and Peter sought quickly to break it, “He gave it to me over date loaf cake, before he, uh, knew I was his- son. Yeah.” He coughed, clearing his throat. “But I don’t remember him liking it very much – the date loaf – so maybe... don’t bring one of those to the interview?”

Flash was staring at him like he was a moron, although he quickly wiped the sight off his face with an anxious glance at the ceiling. The rest of the class came out in fits of giggles suddenly, and even Mr. Dell looked suddenly amused – though he did mutter, “How could anyone like date loaf cake, anyway?”

Holland reached over and gave Peter’s arm a few pats. “Taking my limelight, man.” He settled back on his chair and swept a hand over his head, obviously forgetting he didn’t actually have the hair anymore. Idiot. “Anyway—anyone got anymore questions for me?”

+

This was actually perfect.

Peter hadn’t felt this weightless about his life in weeks; in some way, with the secret being (mostly) out of the bag now (at least in SI, and to his class), he was free to play up to his theatrics and just embrace the silliness of everything around him. He didn’t have to worry about anyone seeing anything parallel in how he acted and how Tony did; he didn’t need to be (too) careful with his words, either. It was, in a small way, thrilling and jittering to admit to someone’s face he was Tony’s son.

He was getting way too comfortable with the word _Son_.

Startlingly, Peter was beginning to realise he didn’t care—or, rather, he didn’t mind. No one was hero worshipping him, and no one had made the connection between him and Spider-Man and, though they were giving their support him as a Stark, no one was just making him _become_ a Stark. He was, at least in the eyes of R&D and the Bio Labs, still Peter; they’d gotten his name slightly wrong, but that was inevitable: who wouldn’t want to take advantage of the Stark surname? Or have a connection to it?

It might not be on paper, but FRIDAY’s systems related him to –Stark. That was, for now, enough.

Peter followed Martyn and his teachers through the labs, not pausing to chat to anyone and politely declining when they tried to grab his attention. He knew they were off to see Dr. Banner’s lower lab now; Martyn had mentioned it in one of his on-track mutters and Peter was determined to make sure the rest of his tour went as perfectly as possible. There might be a few more hiccups, but in all hope Peter wasn’t going to face too many more issues relating to his persona.

He couldn’t say the same of Mr. Harrington, though. Since their short conversation between Holland’s questions, the man had looked more and more on edge and with each step he was beginning to tremble considerably. Peter almost wanted to ask if he was OK, but at the same time the less chatter they had, the more likely Mr. Harrington would leave SI in one piece: Happy wasn’t going to let it, at the very least.

“So,” said Martyn, throwing a glance over his shoulder. “I’ve been reliably informed Dr. Banner is actually here – who’s excited?”

“You mean Smart Hulk?” asked Abe with a gloried look in his eyes. “We’re going to meet the Hulk?”

“Yes,” said Martyn, waving his hand this way and that in something more like habit than in connection to anything he’d said, “He’s quite a busy guy though – I hear – so it’ll be a nice Q&A session, and maybe he’ll sign a few autographs if you ask nicely.”

“I’m gonna ask so nicely he’ll wanna make me his intern,” said one Seymour O’Reilly, who’d otherwise escaped Peter’s notice during the field trip—not that he had taken the time to look at and figure out who everyone was.

Wandering a little behind everybody, Peter took out his phone and glanced through his texts; several from Ned demanding a response, a couple from MJ asking if everything was OK, unknown numbers with obscene and obscure messages he quickly deleted with a brush of his thumb. He checked his settings and disallowed any unknown numbers to currently contact him.

Tony, as he said he had, had left a stupid amount of one to two-word texts or very short paragraphs without any grammar. Damn. Even Doctor Strange had thrown Peter a text, asking him to ring Tony because he was being ‘ _simply maddening_ ’. Peter’s eye caught on the next name down, his newest text, and he quirked an eyebrow:

 **Merica** : Hi, Peter. Have you seen Harley? Steve

Peter brought up the keypad, half-listening to the conversation around him, and tapped out a reply:

 **PeterP** : Not since we sorta maybe fell out before lunch. Why?  
**Merica** : He came up and grabbed his bag from the common, and then left. Now he’s not answering his phone. Why did you fall out? Steve.  
**PeterP** : Difference of opinion. Hes probably just gone to have a coffee  
**Merica** : He’s*. What difference of opinion? Steve.

 _I know it’s you, Steve_ , thought Peter as he came to a stop with the rest of his classmates. They’d arrived at Dr. Banner’s office and lab; although Peter was more than comfortable with calling him Bruce, it felt far more respectful to call him Dr. Banner in the Labs. He caught Mr. Dell’s judging eye and quickly typed a response to Steve before pocketing his phone:

 **PeterP** : Dealin w/ a bully

He felt his phone buzz a few moments later with the same generic tone and pattern he’d assigned the Captain, but Peter’s concentration had already transferred to Bruce Banner who was standing in the middle of his office and laboratory in his special-order lab-coat. “Hey, kids!” he called, reaching back to press a button on his desk and open the door. “I’m Bruce Banner.”

“Hello, Doctor Banner!” Martyn exclaimed, stepping in front of Abe’s gaping stare. “Martyn Rennie of the OFA—and this is Midtown Tech. Are you up for answering a few questions?”

Dr. Banner opened his giant arms and gave a nod. “Please, call me Bruce—and hey! Of course! I came down especially.” He graced them with a smile, his featured brightening up considerably when his and Peter’s eyes briefly met before he turned to his desk. “I actually prepared a quick experiment, too.”

“Oh, that’s great!” Mr. Dell gasped, making large circular motions with his arms. “Doin’ science with the real Bruce Banner! My God—what d’you think of that, Roger?”

Peter flicked his eyes off of the ‘experiment’ – which was just water, cooking oil, food colouring and an Alka-Seltzer (obviously thrown together at the last second, but it’s the thought that counts) – and over to his Mr. Harrington—who was staring at the back wall with such intensity Peter was fleetingly worried he’d burn a hole through it. As the other students crowded Bruce’s worktable, Peter was left standing nearest to his teacher and, seeing he was still totally unaware of his surroundings, Peter cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Harrington?”

Bruce jolted up. “Harrington? Roger Harrington? Oh, wow – I don’t believe it—is that you?”

Mr. Harrington threw a panicked look at Peter. He coughed into his sleeve and then smoothed out his expression into one of doubtful ignorance. “Uh—Hello, Dr. Banner.”

“Wow!” Bruce minded himself as he rounded the kids and walked the few steps to stand in front of Mr. Harrington, looking him up and down.

Peter watched the exchange, his eyebrow raised in moderate confusion, looking between Mr. Harrington’s a-gasp expression and Bruce’s wide, wonder-filled eyes.

“Peter!” Bruce turned to him, and Peter jerked out of his own staring. “You didn’t say Roger was your teacher? Awh, man – I haven’t seen you since Culver—never did I think you’d wind up teaching in a high school.”

Realisation hit Peter then, blinking between Bruce and Mr. Harrington. “Culver—Wait-”

Bruce thumped a hand on to Mr. Harrington’s shoulder, practically levelling him by three inches. “Roger here was one of the best students in Culver University—Man.” He turned to the teacher. “I thought you’d be working for the military, or-or a giant company like SI—but here you are, furthering young minds.”

“Yes, uh... I suppose I am,” said Mr. Harrington, quickly pulling himself out of Bruce’s hold. He spun around to face Martyn, eyes wilding by the second. “Aren’t we on a time limit?”

“Oh, we are-” Martyn pushed his sleeve back, revealing an old watch—triply repaired it looked to Peter from his angle. “I would say we have about... seven minutes left before the business side of SI will be expecting us for a quick jaunt. So...” He gestured at the ‘experiment’. “A bit of science and a Q&A?”

The experiment had gone down a storm with everyone, even though it had been quick; it was still fun, and it brought a smile to Peter’s face. Sometimes he forgot how innocent science could be.

To be fair, Peter hadn’t expected much of the Q&A. The questions weren’t anything: Abe asked about whether the Hulk was still the Hulk, which confused Bruce at first and he ended up not answering past a couple of jittering stutters. Cindy’s question (and Sally’s, apparently) was about something actually to do with science, which was a nice change, and Bruce did answer, but then Flash asked about the Blip and the fight with Thanos and what it was like at the end.

“The end?” Bruce repeated, jutting his chin out in something like surprise before falling back into himself. He leant his rear into the desk behind him, moving it little by little until he stood back up properly and perched instead. “Well, the end... With Nebula...” Bruce got that faraway look in his eyes. Peter knew it. He’d seen it in everyone around him; sometimes he thought he probably had it, too. “We had this—this amazing relay. Spider-Man, I saw him at one point – he was great. He got saved by all the girls.”

A few of Peter’s classmates laughed and he tried to push back the blush threatening to paint his cheeks.

Bruce waved his arms. “They’re amazing – the girls.” He laughed, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. “Anyway. You’ve all heard the story, right? Thor, Steve and Tony – just these massive powerhouses – and they’re all going up against Thanos and Cap’s shield was totalled. I’d never seen vibranium break like that: it was astonishing; it was just... wow.”

“Is it true he’s worthy?” asked Jason. “Captain America?”

“Oh, the magic hammer – yeah. Cap got the hammer and, I think, at one point Spider-Man was hanging off the end of it, too—during that relay race, yeah, that’s a memory.” Bruce’s eyes were on the ceiling, thinking further and further into the wormhole of his head and getting closer to the speechless parts of the reality he’d lived through. “But Tony... Wow. He just wouldn’t give up – Steve was down, Thor was down—we were all down, and then there was Tony—a human. That’s—that’s all he is. You’ve gotta remember he’s not enhanced; he’s not mutated; he doesn’t have super strength, or a healing ability; he can’t scale walls with just his hands and he’s not got any godhood. All he’s got is his brain, his endurance and his demons.

“He’s a guy who built himself into a superhero.”

Peter’s heart swelled at Bruce’s admiration for his friend, listening intently to the awe in his voice. _Tony should hear this_ , thought Peter, wondering how easy it would be to get FRIDAY to give him the tape later tonight. He’d seen the recovered taping of Tony in Malibu when he’d (re)discovered the element, and Peter had nearly gotten chills when he’d seen the look of abundant wonder in his—in, in Tony’s eyes; that younger version of him before the Avengers, before the deceit but not the betrayals; he looked a different man in those videos.

“So, Tony – against all the odds – he got the stones from Thanos. He nearly broke his hand doing it, and I remember he slept for almost a week afterwards... I was near the back of it all, so I couldn’t actually see what happened, but apparently Tony nearly blew himself to pieces just getting the stones, and before he could put his own gauntlet on, Nebula took it and blew Thanos – and herself – out of the sky. It was incredible, watching all the creatures just fall away. There was no saving Nebula; she died on impact of snapping her fingers.”

There was a forlorn moment of silence when Peter met Bruce’s eyes. There’d been talk, of course, of the battle; there had to be. There were so many questions, so much speculation, and so many rumours: They had to talk about everything, learn everything, know everything in case they were asked. Peter had been an exception, because no one in the wider world knew he was Spider-Man, but he’d still learned everything he could.

He hadn’t learnt the individual stories, though; not like everyone else had.

Maybe that was another thing to add to the ‘talk about this’ list he was quickly compiling.

Suddenly, in the silence, Peter’s phone started to ring.

Peter baulked as everyone turned to look at him with raised eyebrows – _Black Sabbath_ was obviously not what they thought he would listen to. He waited a second, and then his face broke into a smile and he took a few steps back. “I should... probably answer that.”

“Go ahead, Mr. Parker,” said Mr. Harrington, quiet disapproval in his voice.

Peter took what he got and made to leave, fishing his phone out. He pressed accept when he was walking back through the Labs. “Hey, Tony.”

“Hey, Pete. We got a problem with your field trip. D’you know where you’re heading next?” came Tony’s voice from the other side of the phone; there was a lot of nervous chatter around him, and Peter swore he heard Pepper swearing in the background.

“Uhh... I think Martyn said—business? So? HR, I guess—PR?”

“Yeah, no good, kid: Maria Rosendale is currently on the business floor getting a debrief on her actions and hearing her rights—” Something crashed in the background and Tony cut off to yell, “Barton! Wanda!” Loud laughter followed.

Peter swerved around a couple of leaning scientists and made for the doorway. “OK. Well. Shit?”

“Uh-hu—Wait, when did you learn that word?”

 _Avoidance tactics; oh, shit, this is bad_. Peter forced a laugh. “I think I’ve been swearing longer than Steve has.” He got to the door and pressed his print onto the scanner, letting FRIDAY do her thing. He stepped out into the deserted hallway, thankful to anyone up there listening. “Tony, what’s wrong? If she’s being-”

“She’s joining your tour after and there’ll be a cameraman with them, too—and probably a couple of journalists, as well as a security guard,” Tony said quickly, obnoxiously tapping his foot on the other side of the line. “Peter, this is serious—I know you want a normal field trip, OK? But right now, that’s not going to happen.”

“No, I... I get that, Tony,” said Peter, letting out a long breath away from his phone screen. “So, what do you want me to do?” He fidgeted with the end of his hoodie, turning at the sound of footsteps. Peter raised his hand in a wave to a couple of scientists, but they (forgivingly, mercifully) walked onwards without a glance at him, deep in conversation.

Tony took a moment to respond. “I want you to tell Martyn and your teachers you have to leave the tour, Pete. Unless you want this whole thing blown open in the worst possible way – and trust me this will be spun as planned, all right? You need to get your ass up here _now_.”

Peter pursed his lips. “But, Tony-”

“ _Now_ , Peter. This isn’t one of those times where you can change the situation, OK?” In the background, someone said something and Tony broke off in a venomous mutter, walking away from the commotion. “Pete, look, this is different—you’re different. Shit changes when shit like this happens. When I found out you were— when I found out who you were to me, I knew this would eventually happen. I’ve not prepared you for it well enough. I’m sorry. I was trying to keep you as more of a kid than you are; and that makes me selfish.”

Alarm shot through Peter. “Oh, Mr—No. Tony, I-”

“Peter. _Spiderling_.” The strained edge of Tony’s voice gave Peter pause. “I’ve not been real with you—and Pep’s chewed me out big time for it. I’m sorry, but for the company’s sake we have to hold that conference.”

A stray tear budded in Peter’s eye. “But-”

“This isn’t about you, Peter.”

“Of course it’s about me!” Peter practically shouted, and then mumbled sorrys when he heard Tony’s intake of breath. “When _hasn’t_ it been about me? You want me— you want me to give up everything which makes me _normal_!”

“Because you aren’t normal, Peter! You’ve _never_ been normal!” Someone else was in the background, soothing and talking, but Tony was walking away from them- “Not now, Rogers! _Gah!_ What the Hell do you think normal is, Pete? Normal isn’t jumping over rooftops and throwing yourself off buildings! Normal isn’t building your own tech to fight crime! Normal isn’t going to space on a flying donut with me and a wizard—normal isn’t...” He trailed off, breathing laboured, and said in a quieter voice but with no less bite, “Normal isn’t being _my son_.”

Peter raised a hand to smear the tears out of his eyes, rooting himself to the spot as the doors behind him opened and his classmates flooded out. The silence on the other side of the phone, the wheezing breaths, didn’t last and Tony said, “Peter, I didn’t mean-”

“Have you reinstated my privileges with FRI?” Peter asked, dead, turning his head when Martyn came up on his side with an eyebrow raised in question. He waved him off.

“... Yes. FRIDAY will let you up—Go to the penthouse, all right? Steve’s bein-”

“Sure,” Peter cut in, and before Tony could say anything else he cut the connection and locked his phone. He turned to Martyn, who was already looking at him sadly. “I’m guessing you got that?”

“I don’t usually get much of anything, Peter, if you aren’t blunt with me.” But then he nodded, the teasing edge of his accent phrasing out. “Clear it with your teachers, OK?”

Peter nodded, and then paused, taking out his phone and holding it out. “Press it for me,” he said, and Martyn blinked several times before pushing his finger on to the screen beside Peter’s. It vibrated, _ding_ ed. Peter brought up the screen, tapped his log, and then handed it across. “I’d love your number; be good to have a friend.” He left his phone momentarily, his watch activating to show exactly what Martyn was doing (entering his number digit by digit, slowly), and walked towards his teachers. “I’ve got to leave. Sorry.”

“Leave?” Mr. Dell said, looking up, worry pressing into his voice. “Uh, I don’t think we can let you do that, Peter?”

“I’ll try to come back,” he lied, looking from Mr. Dell to Mr. Harrington; the other teacher looked to be in discomfort, his eyes firmly on the floor. “That was Tony on the phone. I’ve got to handle this thing that’s happened – because of the company.” Peter tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice, not looking at his classmates.

“Uh, I still-”

“Julius,” said Mr. Harrington, exhaustion worming into his tone. He turned to face Peter. “I think, under the circumstances, we can probably allow this—although I’d like something on my desk from Mr. Stark on Monday to verify he is your legal guardian.” His eyes shone dimly, but with a knowing edge to his irises that spoke too much for Peter’s honesty.

Peter bowed his head, took his phone from Martyn, and brushed past his classmates with a drained expression to keep them from interfering with him. As he walked away, he heard Charles remark, “Wow. I never realised Peter was so, y’know, important... Imagine being the heir to a multibillion dollar company.”

“It must be great,” Jason replied with a whistle.

“He gets to live with the Avengers!” Betty said, squealing.

Peter felt himself deflate the closer he got to the elevator, as Martyn called, “All right, everyone! Our next stop is business!” A small cheer rang out, but it was quickly stilted when Peter stepped inside of the elevator and the doors closed behind him, sealing his fate.

“Hi, FRIDAY,” he said, not looking up from the floor.

“Peter,” she replied, a little stern. “Boss is sorry he yelled at you. He’s very unhappy with himself right now.”

Peter sighed, sticking his hands into the pocket of his hoodie, “I suppose you analysed his expressions for that, huh?”

“No, Peter,” FRIDAY replied as the elevator moved upwards at pace. “Boss is my Creator. I know when he is upset, just as I know when you are, too.”

Peter affixed an air of indifference to his expression and stayed silent the rest of the trip upstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Bonus** _edited; 18/04/2020 due to confusion over the nature of Steve and Bucky's relationship_
>
>> Steve sighed into his palm as the commotion around him doubled with each Avenger’s arrival. In all the madness, he dialled the number again—“ _Hey! You’ve reached Harley Keener! If you’re so ‘keen’ to get in touch with me, leave a message!_ ”
>> 
>> And again. And again. And again.
>> 
>> Eventually, all he got was- “ _We’re sorry, but the number you have dialled is currently unavailable. Please try again later_.”
>> 
>> Steve jolted when a hand touched his shoulder and looked up into Bucky’s searching eyes. The Winter Soldier looked down at the device in Steve’s hand and bit his lip. “Is Harley still not responding?”
>> 
>> “No, he’s not Buck,” Steve replied.
>> 
>> “Should we be worried?” Bucky asked, twisting his mouth to the side. “Peter thought he was at a coffee shop, yeah? Did you contact them?”
>> 
>> “I did. I rang the one we went to the other day, and after they got over being flustered they said they’d call back if they saw him, and they’d alert the other coffee houses in the area, too.” Steve pursed his lips, frowning at his phone. He swiped his thumb over it, waking up the screen. Checking through his contacts, Steve selected Harley and rang again—but he got the same response. With a groan, he opened their texts and wrote:
>> 
>> **SteveRogers** : Harley, please ring me when you get this. We’re really worried about you. Steve&Bucky.
>> 
>> Bucky kneaded his shoulder. “You can’t do anything more than that, Steve. He knows you’re worried about him.”
>> 
>> Steve sighed. “I know, Buck... I just worry I might be too late.”
> 
> Thank you for reading ! Take care of yourselves -J 


	10. Everything's About To Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > “I just wanted one damn field trip,” said Peter after another bout of silence around him. “One damn-”
>> 
>> “No,” Tony butted in, the laziness in his voice uninterrupted by the reproach. “No, Pete. You didn’t want just _one damn field trip_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _*Lays new chapter at your door and trots off*_
> 
> **The HARLEY'S PLAYLIST special has been posted !** I know some of you were asking what's going on with him, so you can [Click Here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23691736/chapters/56881876) to found out ! Although I'll warn you: you might regret asking...  
> Please note it is differently rated to the main OFA storyline. It is **Mature** , so please **read the tags and warnings**. -J
> 
> ###### 
> 
> The awesome [InformalFallacy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InformalFallacy/pseuds/InformalFallacy) has very politely made a TVTropes page for Open For All ! [Click Here!](https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Fanfic/OpenForAll) to go to it :)

The elevator made its usual cheery _ding_ when it arrived at the penthouse floor and it, the very sound, felt wrong. Any underlying optimism was misplaced from Peter’s point of view; he should have been walking into this conversation feeling confident and ready for action. Instead it was all he could do not to dread the hum of the voices coming from the attached kitchen.

His excellent hearing caught the stepping sounds of movement and Peter swallowed, bracing himself as footsteps walked purposefully out from the kitchen. “Peter,” said Tony before he even came into view, wearing a smartly done-up shirt and waistcoat combination – obviously getting ready for something.

Peter knew exactly what that _something_ was.

Peter pushed down the sickness churning in his stomach and swallowed around the lump in his throat, tilting his head to the side and down. The footsteps started up again, and the irregular heartbeat started thumping harder the closer it got. Peter dropped his head forwards, looking at the floor like there was something interesting about it. It was a floor, for fu—for goodness sakes! What the Hell is interesting about a floor?

When Tony stopped in front of him, Peter lifted his eyes onto the heeled loafers.

For any normal person, this silence would have been devastating—except for Peter it wasn’t silent. He’d let the sound of heartbeats sift through his complicated hearing barrier, the stain of the situation pushing his filtering capabilities to breaking point. He breathed in, but then that went too—and Tony’s breathing was always shallow, always weaker than any average human’s, and Peter—

He hated that.

The voices from the kitchen clipped Peter’s hearing and he brought a hand up to smooth over his mouth and neck, trying to stop the bile rising in his throat. He started to shake, started to practically vibrate—and who turned on the Goddamn _light_ —

Rough fingers touched his cheeks and Peter gasped at his sensitivity, lurching away as the skin practically _burnt_ and then his lungs—God—his lungs were smoking up—or was that debris? Dust? Or was that—

“Peter.” Tony pressed his hands flat against both sides of Peter’s face, applying gentle pressure to his temples—circling them with his nicked and worked fingers. He manually lifted Peter’s head, smoothing his fingers through his hair to push it back, push it away from his reddening face. “Spiderling, hey – come back to me, Pete.”

Peter moved his stare from where it’d settled on Tony’s shoulder to his face, the neat area between his eyebrows, trying with failure to avoid the edges of the older man’s piercing eyes. He swallowed again, feeling a pit open in his throat.

“Right, let’s just – do something about this.” Tony dug a hand into his jeans’ pocket and brought out a small oblong-shaped box. It would have been nearly flat if not for the two distinct indents beneath it, giving away exactly what it contained. He popped it open with his thumb and took the first earbud from its protective casing, holding it out to Peter.

Peter raised a hand to take it. He rolled it between his fingers, the feel of it sterile and firm, and then slowly he lifted it, pushing it into his right ear. Tony did the other, a grounding hand on Peter’s shoulder, inserting the noise-reducing earbuds with the familiar guidance of his still hands.

When they were in and secure, Tony gently pressed against the one and said, “Karen?”

Peter gasped, a hand fluttering to cover his heart, when he heard his AI respond softly and directly into his ear: “Present and correct. Hello, Peter. We’ve not spoken for a while.”

“Oh, my God-”

“Thought you’d like that update, kid,” said Tony, his voice quiet but not muted. “FRIDAY suggested I code Karen in instead of her.” Carefully, now the sensory overload had been avoided, Tony pulled his arm around Peter’s shoulder and gave him a squeeze. “Said you might have missed her, considering you’ve been out of the suit a while now...”

Peter looked at him, wanted to believe this was all kindness and heart and everything in between—but.

But Starks do not do anything without a purpose. It was something Peter had learnt in the quiet of every interaction he’d had with Tony, in every word he said and every practiced gesture. It scared him, slightly, to realise he was the same.

Because he was a Stark. In blood. In right. In nature. In everything but his legal name.

 _And that’s nothing, really; just paperwork_.

Peter took in a deep breath and said, “So... should I put my funeral suit on, or...?”

Tony’s expression deflated. He didn’t pull away from Peter, but gave him another comforting squeeze around the shoulders instead, and then reached up to remove his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Kid.”

“I understand,” said Peter, hands in his hoodie. “It’s never that I’ve not understood, Tony. I know- I know I’m not normal. I know every minute up to today has been—well, it’s been bought, hasn’t it?” Peter looked up at him. “I don’t want to know how much money you’ve spent on keeping everything quiet.”

“Well, Pete, that wasn’t exactly the issue in the end, was it?” Tony replied, exhaustion reflected in his gentle eyes; it had already been a long day for everyone involved. “If I’d just kept my mouth shut-”

“You couldn’t,” Peter said immediately, clenching his teeth together. “We can go on like this, but I don’t think it’s important right now.” He shrugged out of the hold, despite the comfort it had brought him, and started walking sluggishly towards the kitchen. Although all the sounds around him had quieted slightly, he could still hear the raised voices talking about—well, about him and his future and everything connected with it.

Tony followed him, coming up at his side before moving ahead and around the slight bend. A shuffling of chairs pushed at the bare basis of Peter’s ability to think and he hesitated before stepping into kitchen—and straight into Pepper Potts’s slim arms. They encircled his shoulders, one hand splaying across the back of his head and drawing him into her shoulder.

Through the slight weave of her hair, Peter acknowledged the table’s once occupants standing from their chairs as if the Devil himself had possessed their steaming cups. Dr. Strange stood, perhaps a little awkwardly, with his hands fidgeting, and beside him Rhodey – while standing as straight as he could – stared on with open and persistent sadness in his eyes.

It seemed to Peter Happy hadn’t been sat at the table by his laid-back position against the countertop, hands pressed down flatly. The stoic expression he’d worn downstairs earlier was long gone, replaced with something between biting anger and rapid depression.

Pepper gave him one last squeeze and then released him from her hug, carefully drawing her hand through his fringe before pushing it away from his face. She grounded him with her manicured hands on his shoulders. “Peter,” she said, mother-like, and with nearly the same smile she gave Tony when he wasn’t looking, “We’re going to sort this out, OK?”

“I know, Pepper,” said Peter, keeping his voice level as if he hadn’t been about ready to burst into tears. He raised his eyes to the others in the room, and focused in on Happy. “Hey, Happy.”

“Hey,” he replied with a greeting nod and a fleeting smile. “Just so you know, we’re having a conversation about that teacher—and that kid.”

Alarm shot through Peter. “Oh, uh—you, you don’t need to do that!” he babbled as Pepper stepped back to stand nearer Tony, a look passing between them as Peter continued to dig a deeper hole for himself (if someone could fill the dirt back in after he got about six feet down, that would be really nice thanks). “I—Harley took care of Flash, I-I don’t think he’ll... bother me again, especially after today...”

“Oh, he definitely won’t,” said Tony, already with a coffee in hand. “Because you aren’t going back to that school, nuh-uh. Not with that kid and not with that abusive asshole teacher.” He leant his hip into the countertop and snaked a hand down to pick up a palm of dried blueberries, throwing them into his mouth. “I’ve already reported your Mr. Roger Harrington to the NEA and other authorities.”

“Wha—? T-Tony! I-I love that-that school, my-my friends, an-and you—you can’t do that,” Peter cried, his jaw falling open. “You’ll ruin his entire career.”

Tony raised his eyebrows. “Kid, in case you haven’t noticed; I’ve _made_ a career out of doing that.” He ate another palm of the dried berries and then pushed the bowl to one side, laying the discarded plastic packaging on the top. “Peter, I don’t think you quite understand the seriousness of his behaviour.”

“Bu-but he doesn’t need to have his career ruined!” Peter reasoned, looking for help from anyone—but Pepper stood primly beside her husband, her eyes lifted to the wall behind Peter, and Happy had been scowling since Tony said Mr. Harrington’s name. Neither Rhodey nor Dr. Strange looked concerned by Tony’s doing, either; if anything, they seemed almost bored. Peter balled his hands into fists. “He needs _help_.”

“And he’ll get it, Peter,” Tony replied coolly, picking his coffee back up. “Contrary to whatever Cap thinks, I’m not actually heartless-”

“Of course you aren’t,” Peter butted in, rolling his eyes.

Tony smiled at the interruption, and then continued, “He’ll be benefitting from therapy, coaching and retraining with a grant from the Stark Relief Foundation, and we’ll make sure he can live comfortably while he gets the help he needs—because obviously the six-week therapy package offered by the US Government after the Snap wasn’t all that helpful.” Tony pursed his lips. “As I understand from Bruce, before Harrington began teaching he was a scientist. I’m absolutely willing to let him join our staff here in any department handling non-sensitive information once he can prove he’s recovered.”

“And apologises for his actions,” Happy added.

“And apologises for his actions,” Tony confirmed with a nod across the kitchen before he turned to Peter. “I know you think you can handle him, Peter, but you can’t—and you’d have graduated this year, too. Do you think people like that stop without intervention? He might be hurting, Pete, but he’s an adult teaching children. He has authority and power over them. He can’t do what he’s been doing.” He raised a hand to his face, the conversation already wearing him down. “This was the best option.”

Peter resisted the urge to bite his lip and tried, “Bu-but-”

Tony was ready: “Peter. Listen: Getting him struck off from teaching for an undisclosed reason is better than him getting fired for abuse of power, harassment of a student and blatant, _blatant_ favouritism for a kid who’s _also_ an asshole.” Tony practically inhaled his coffee as he raised the half-full cup to his lips and drained it. “The other options were him getting dragged through the press and going to jail. I found the better of those, kiddo.”

“It’s true,” Rhodey added. “I still think his ass should be getting a suspended sentence, but...” He lifted his hands, palms out, to the room and tilted his head to the side with raised eyebrows and pursed lips.

Taking in a long breath, Peter said, “Thank you... You’re still going to talk to him though, aren’t you?”

Tony nodded steadily. “It’s my job to keep you safe, Peter.” He winced after he’d said it, throwing a look across the room to Rhodey and Dr. Strange. “I... haven’t really done that lately.”

“What about the kid?” Happy butted in suddenly, drawing the conversation around. “Eugene.”

(“Flash,” Peter mumbled in correction.)

Pepper was the one to reply to Happy, “I think Harley handled him quite well, though he did go a little far...—Where is Harley, by the way?”

“I don’t know,” said Tony immediately, his face drawing into a tight frown. “He was _meant_ to be going to Automotive, but Cap said he went to the common, got his bag and left. I was actually there with Rhodey – and believe me I would have chewed him out for that threat had I seen his ass.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “He left? Oh, uh, maybe that’s my fault—we sorta fell out when I wouldn’t let him report Flash to FRIDAY.”

(“What sort of name is Flash for a kid,” muttered Happy.)

“He blocked my number,” Tony added, pulling out his phone from his pocket. He flicked his thumb across the screen, dialled it and held it out for Peter and Pepper to see.

Peter took a few steps forward and blinked down at the photo of Harley on Tony’s phone—he was slightly younger in it, maybe, but nothing about his face had really changed as he got older; he still had a layer of puppy-fat; his skin was still sparsely spotted; his eyes coloured by subtle intelligence under snarky wit. The photo itself had obviously been taken in the lab, and Harley was frowning in it with one hand clenched tightly on an engine.

The call petered off into the classic blocked dial tone and the screen shifted back to Tony’s homescreen. He didn’t pull it away too quickly, even when Peter’s eyes widened at the picture of _him_ behind the numerous icons. He recognised it at once, and even remembered the exact day it was taken because they had to be careful whenever they went out as—

 _As a family_.

A promisingly dreary weekend a few months ago it had been; Tony had grabbed his keys and said he was driving and Happy should get in the passenger seat. Rhodey and Pepper had folded into the back with Peter and they’d gone off, Peter very obviously confused, as the weather brightened the further they got out of New York. He’d been practically glued to the window as they entered the leafiness of a forest and then, half an hour later, came out on the other side to loping fields. Apparently they’d passed multiple research facilities and units, including one belonging to Stark Industries which hadn’t been used for more than eight years. Peter hadn’t seen any of them, too caught up in the scenery.

They’d parked up and Peter had gotten out immediately, stretching the cramp from his legs before practically launching himself up the nearest tree. It had been the first time he’d climbed a tree, just to climb a tree, in years. He’d come down when Tony (then Mr. Stark) called, and he’d practically burst when Happy popped the trunk and took out the picnic basket. The walk to the river-glade hadn’t been long, and the area was remarkably pollutant free. For the first time in – months, actual months – Peter had been happy; the crisp smell of spring flowers taking the dust of the city from his nose, and he’d just thrown himself back into the grass and before he knew it Tony was standing over him, phone out, and laughing as he’d gone for the old cliché of ‘ _Cheese!_ ’

He’d only gotten a fleeting look of the photo as Tony settled back down on the blanket and said something like, “Now that’s a keeper.”

Now, months later, seeing the photo as the background of Tony’s phone made Peter’s heart swell to bursting.

“That’s odd,” said Pepper, breaking into Peter’s thoughts. “Why would Harley block your number? Shall I try and ring him? Maybe he’ll answer me.”

Tony pocketed his phone and shook his head. “No, no – you relax, Pep. Harley’s a hothead; he just needs a few hours to cool off. Besides, Capsicle’s doing enough worrying for everyone—the mother-hen.” Tony muttered the last part, his head turned down. “Anyway,” he said suddenly, and Peter flinched at the pinch in his tone. “I think we’ve danced around this enough, now.”

Silence.

Peter stood stock-still, flicking his eyes from Tony to Pepper to Rhodey and Strange and Happy. The obvious flare of tension didn’t go unnoticed, and everyone around the room shifted awkwardly from one foot to another as they tried to process the reality abound them. Finally, after another few moments, Tony walked across to the table and turned up a Starkpad. He seamlessly put it into the non-standard hologram mode and started melding the image before them, hitting on what he wanted a minute later.

The room filled with sudden and unnerving flashes and voices, thankfully dimmer than they’d usually be for Peter but the effect of it all was still the same: hundreds of reporters and newspeople from agencies across the country – no, _the world_ – had descended on the Tower and bottled themselves up in the NYC Stark Industries reception, talking incessantly and incredulously about the _Stark Heir_. Peter’s eyes drifted from headline to headline – English to Spanish to German to Korean to Italian to everything else – and found multiple variations of the same words he’d read that morning in the recovery room, all asking who he was, where he was—hell, a couple were asking _why_ he was.

God. They made it sound as if he was a long-lost prince and not just a celebrity’s kid.

Well. He _was_ the kid of Tony ‘Iron Man’ Stark; maybe that was a bit of a step-up from ‘ _just a celebrity_ ’.

And if they found out that kid was also Spider-Man...

It didn’t bare thinking about. Peter took in a long breath and walked forwards a few steps, raising his hand to brush over the various newsreels. “You’re looking for one,” said Dr. Strange a moment later, breaking the room out of the settled trance. “Which are you looking for?”

“ _Daily Bugle_ ,” said Peter absently. “It was what Aunt May always used to watch. She had a crush on the guy – uh, J. Jonah Jameson.”

“She what?” Rhodey sputtered, and Happy started choking on his coffee. “Bu—the guy’s _ancient_. I think I actually remember reading his newspaper column at MIT...”

Peter shrugged. “I think she had a _thing_ for secondary power—you know, not total authority but, like, the ones in the background. She always preferred him when he wasn’t front and centre, too, like when he did reports but not the _main_ report.” He flicked a few more newsreels away.

Tony started _giggling_ , quickly clearing his throat into a better laugh. He wiped the drool off his lips. “That... That explains her quite a bit, kid.”

Peter’s lip tugged into a side-smile, concentration evident on his expression as he searched the various outlets. “FRIDAY,” he asked, and she delivered without a word, pushing all the other journalists away to display _The Daily Bugle_ in front of Peter. The reporter was hurriedly apologising for some earlier incident involving someone swearing on live TV, but otherwise the report looked exactly the same as the other ones. Peter watched it, his face falling, and he cast a look to the floor, pulling his mouth into a stretched frown.

“I just wanted one damn field trip,” said Peter after another bout of silence around him. “One damn-”

“No,” Tony butted in, the laziness in his voice uninterrupted by the reproach. “No, Pete. You didn’t want just _one damn field trip_.” He flicked his hand over the hologram, and the kitchen returned to its usual state. During the newsreel madness, either Happy or Rhodey had put the coffee machine on. “You want everything to suit your timeframe—and your timeframe is your whole goddamn life, kid.

“Do you know how I’ve come to that? Why I understand that? Because that’s me—that’s the me in you, Pete.” Tony held up a finger when Peter opened his mouth to retort, “Nuh-uh! No. I talk now; you listen. When something doesn’t work how I want it to, I _change it_. We got dealt a bad hand this morning—but you know what’s great about this, Pete? _We aren’t playing cards_.” He reached out, hesitated and dropped his hands back to his sides, slipping them into his pockets. “We got advantages and disadvantages – that’s life in this game, kid. Every day, we make choices that affect that balance. Sometimes, we got all the advantages—other times, we got none. But you know what’s great?

“Every day, we have a chance to change our odds—every damn day we _choose_ how we’re gonna use the advantages and the disadvantages of a situation.” Tony brushed his hair to the side, but it sprang back immediately. “When I don’t like the choices I get, I find a different one. What I did this morning—I know how it’s been swung, I know how you think of it—Hell, I got it in the neck from Rogers... But the thing is I don’t play to what I get. I play to what I _want_ to get. They’re totally different ways of playing, and that’s...” Tony blew out a long breath, shaking his head. “That’s it. You want to know why Cap and I were going for the throat earlier? Because, fundamentally – and this is anthropology for you – we handle the balancing situation differently.

“Cap sees the options, grapples with them a bit, and then chooses the one he thinks is _right_. Me? I can’t just do _what’s right_ —because my choices aren’t like that. My choices aren’t black and white. The Accords—Cap, Cap wanted to see them as black and white – good and bad because that’s what he knows, and that’s—God, that’s _selfish_.” Tony bit out a loud breath, pressing a hand over his heart. When Pepper and Dr. Strange drew nearer, he waved his other wrist at them and said, “I-I’m fine. I just need a minute.”

Peter stared at Tony as he pulled out a chair and sat down, reached for anyone’s cup and then pushed it away with a grimace. Pepper delivered him a bottle of water, which he took and drank from to settle the nervous energy. Tony’s words – all of them – darted around Peter’s head and he tried to tidy them up, put them into neat categories—but that was it, wasn’t it? There weren’t any neat categories.

“When I...” Tony pressed a hand to his face, flinching when Pepper’s hand started to knead his shoulder. “When I took your suit, Pete—you pushed all my options into the negative. You put yourself in danger—you put _so many other people_ in danger. You knocked out all the advantages, you-” He raised his left arm, grabbed his wrist with his right, and brought it back to press a closed fist against his chin. “You took away every positive option and choice I had—like I said back then: you screwed the pooch. And then, _then_ , you _gave yourself choices_. You chose to do what you did, not because it was easy or hard or right. You chose to do it because it needed to be done, because no one else was gonna do it. You found that choice.”

Tony sat back in his chair and turned his head to look at Peter. “You did exactly what I would have done, what I should have done—and you know what? I’ve never said it, I-” He pressed his lips into a line, disregarding the thought. “God, I just don’t wanna be like Howard. I don’t want your screw ups to be because I was a... a... Because I was a bad dad. I want you to screw up, because that’s the most normal thing you can have as who you are, but I want your screw ups to be yours, not mine. Not because of me.” He leant on to the kitchen table, opened his mouth, shut it again, shook his head a couple of times and then said, “I messed up – well, no. I’m not taking that. I didn’t mess up this morning. I said what had to be said to avoid something worse.”

Peter furrowed his brow and said, “Well... No—I mean, yeah—I mean, mean you’re right. You-you did.” He flicked his eyes from Tony to Pepper, who was looking from her husband to Happy, silently communicating. Her hands hadn’t left Tony’s shoulders, gently applying pressure, grounding him. “I... I’ve been...” Peter rubbed the back of his neck, a blush working over his cheeks. “I’ve been... Yeah, I’ve been avoiding this _thing_. I just... I hoped everything was going to work out, you know?”

“Nothing was ever going to work out, Peter,” said Dr. Strange, tapping the rim of his cup; he was back to the coffee addiction, then. “If I might... What Tony did this morning with Rosendale wasn’t to take away your choice, but to _give you more of them_.”

Peter dropped his fidgeting fingers.

“You have every chance now to decide how you want the world to see you,” Dr. Strange continued, holding up one long and lithe finger – shaking slightly – and pointing it at Peter. “You can create exactly who you will be. You can shape the advantages and the disadvantages—So, I will disagree with the good Captain here, Peter: You have nothing _but_ choice in how you handle this.”

Peter slowly blinked at Dr. Strange, and then looked across to Tony who’d raised his head and was staring at the sorcerer with unbridled admiration. “Basically,” said Peter. “If I—...” _If I have to do this. No_. “When I do this,” he corrected, rubbing one arm. “The press conference—when I do that, I can...When I do that conference, I’m not- I’m not Peter Parker anymore.”

“You are Peter Parker,” said Happy, moving across to give Peter a pat near the heart. “In here you’ll always be Peter Parker. We know that, kid.”

Peter forced himself to smile. “Oh, yeah, I mean—yeah. I...” He looked across to Tony, half-aware his expression was probably too vivid, too much, too open and honest to his feelings.

 _What the Hell’s in a name, anyway?_ How did a set of letters define a person? How did they cause hatred? Love? How did they make people stand up and pay attention? Why did people say: ‘What an amazing name’? And: ‘Wow, now that’s a name’? What was that?

Why did he feel so hurt at the idea – the sentiment – behind the dishonesty of this? Of, after this press conference, still being _Peter Parker?_ Why should it matter how he introduced himself? Why should he care if he was a Stark in blood, but only bore the name for necessity? And nicety? Why was the name _Parker_ so ingrained in him he felt both anger and grief, but at the same time absolute _thrill_ of telling someone—

Of saying—

Of being—

Of choosing—

Of becoming—

Peter hadn’t realised he was holding his breath until he had to actually breathe.

‘ _What does it matter?_ ’ Peter heard in the back of his mind – a foreign voice, an intruder into his headspace, a quiet and chasing influence with questions dripping from its lips. ‘ _Why does it matter who you are? What you’ll be? What’s in a name? Parker or Stark? Eventually, it’s all noise in an empty universe._ ’

‘ _What does it matter when all’s said and all’s done? When everything is back to dust? A snap of someone’s fingers and you’re a new person, anyway,_ ’ it continued and Peter blinked away from everything in front of him – an endless expanse of rubble and debris stretched out—He brought himself back to the present, looked from one voice to the next, from Pepper to Happy to Rhodey to Dr. Strange and finally—

‘ _What does it matter, Peter? All this life, regret and guilt—how would anything like a name change you? How would it matter?_ ’ The sound morphed, and suddenly Peter could hear every voice of his head—every yell, every shout and shriek, every emotion he’d welled up and then—then—

 _It matters, because I want it to matter,_ he heard in his own voice, silencing every demon, every screaming memory, every living regret.

Finally, Peter turned his eyes on his father. He swallowed around the lump in his throat and said, “Bruce... reminded me – reminded me of something today, Tony.” Peter breathed in, the confused expressions around the room doing nothing for the little self-confidence he was growing from the seed of doubt—but Tony’s eyes were interested, staring with the intelligence they shared; that great expense of knowledge. “You built yourself into a superhero... And now I-I, well, I understand what you did – when you told everyone you were Iron Man.

“You made a choice. You did it because you had to—you needed to.”

Tony nodded. In the ensuing silence, Tony picked up the spoon from the sugar and tapped the rim of his cup with it. “That’s what a hero is, Pete. Solid ground, that’s it. You do what you do... not because you want the fame, or the privileges, or because it’s what’s right or difficult – although those are reasons, sometimes, sure. Yeah you do it because you have to do it, because no one else can do it like you can—like you feel you can. That’s—that’s...”

“Great power with great responsibility,” Peter said immediately, the words sitting right but his own sort of right – not Uncle Ben right, not staggering guilt, not a shamed conscious, but with the boundaries of his past falling away behind him like a crumbling bridge back to the pain he’d come from, learnt from, had moved on from.

Tony’s eyebrows shot up. “When d’you get so smart, kid?” he asked, a smile tugging at his lips.

Peter started to laugh until tears budded his eyes, and through the wet clinging of his lashes he saw Tony raise a hand to wipe his own eyes. Peter took the offered tissue from Pepper and blew his nose, taking in a few deep breaths as Rhodey rubbed his back. “I— When is the press conference? How long do I have?”

“We haven’t set a time, Peter; we wanted to leave it up to you,” said Pepper, flicking a glance at her watch. “We’d just need to prep a room – Happy, could you sort out which journalists to let in? – I would think we could have something ready for an hour’s time.”

“That sounds... good,” said Peter, trying hard to untie the anxious knot in his stomach. “Yeah. An hour – I-I can manage that.”

“We can get you a script,” said Rhodey, fist to his mouth, looking across at Tony. His wide eyes narrowed, and he added, “Then again...”

Beside him, Dr. Strange gruffled with laughter. “I wouldn’t want to assume but, from what I’ve seen of Peter, defiance does tend to run in the family.” He swished his hand through the air, a trail of energy following the fluid motion. “I would say let the boy screw up himself.”

Pepper and Happy quickly left the room to begin organising the press conference, and Tony gestured for Peter to join him at the table. “Coffee, kid?”

“Could I have orange juice? I don’t want to be jittery when I’m talking to the reporters.”

“Good idea, kid.” Tony got up, the tension around the kitchen dispersing with each new second of Peter’s life. He took the glass from Tony with a quiet thank you, and knocked his rough hands away when they ruffled through his hair. “What, kid? I’m just making sure it looks good for the cameras – c’mon, Petey, lemme just get this smudge on your cheek!”

“Tony!” Peter laughed, watching as Tony’s eyes practically sparkled from the tenderness of the moment. Peter settled down, looking across to where Dr. Strange and Rhodey were fiddling with the disobedient coffee maker. Taking in a breath, Peter turned to Tony and said, “Will you be there with me? At the press conference?”

Tony set his coffee down. “Do you want me there, Spiderling?”

Peter mumbled something even he wasn’t willing to admit he’d said.

“What was that, Pete?” A look of something crossed Tony’s face – interest, gentle and kind, but with the same cool intelligence he had about nearly everything; able to correct and admonish at a moment’s notice.

“I-I-I’d like you there, uhm, beside me.” Peter blushed at his increasingly high pitch, ignoring the snort of laughter from Rhodey.

A smile split Tony’s face and he started shaking his head just a little, before giving a solid nod. “Of course I’ll be there, Pete.” He leant towards Peter a little, raised a hand to his shoulder, and gave it a squeeze.

 _That’s not gonna fly_. Peter practically threw his glass on the table (it spun a few times, and then miraculously settled without spilling a drop of orange juice) and launched himself forwards to wrap Tony in a hug, _smooshing_ his face into the man’s shoulder and inhaling his smell – something like citrus, something like machine oil, everything like Tony – before settling into the embrace with a smile surpassing any description.

Tony’s arms folded around him, his head bowing into Peter’s hair, pressing three kisses along his parting one after the other. “My boy,” he mumbled, and Peter turned his sharp intake into a normal breath, bunching his hands into Tony’s waistcoat to stop the shake threatening to run through him and ruin the moment. “My beautiful boy, my-” Tony inhaled, pushing his nose into Peter’s curls.

Peter was half-sure he wasn’t meant to be able to hear those words, to hear the blatant emotion in Tony’s voice, to hear—“My wonderful son,” Tony whispered directly into Peter’s ear, popping out one of the earbuds. “I love you. I love you so, so much. I honestly, _honestly_ do not care who you want to be, or... what you want your name to be—you’re my Peter, my Spiderling, _my son_ , and I love you.”

Tears pricked Peter’s eyes and he let out a sniffle into Tony’s shirt, (“Sh- _hhh_ -ush, Pete. You’re OK.”) the irregular beat of his heart pounding with the hums of the nanos – the sound of Peter’s universe – and into Tony’s shoulder, though quiet and inaudible to the human ear, Peter said back, “I love you, too, dad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I might have cried a little writing this.)  
> No bonus this time as a tribute to those of us who sat through the credits of Endgame ~~twice~~ and got NOTHING but a _ting-ting_.  
> Stay safe ! -J


	11. Knock 'em Dead, Kid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > “Tony – the _world_. You know what – _and who_ – I saw. This can’t wait another second – you’ve avoided it since we spoke months ago—Tony, please. Please-”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _*Tosses and runs*_
> 
> SO, I am about 80% sure we are two chapters out from The End?? Of the field trip aspect of this AU, anyway ! Whether anyone chooses to read on in the next thing, we'll see ! (I hope so !)  
> I hope you'll enjoy ! These last few chapters will ask a lot of questions, and lay the ground work for what's going on next while finishing up a few bits and pieces (aka the actual field trip).  
> For anyone interested, the next chapter of Harley's Playlist is currently in editing stages ;) -J
> 
> The awesome [InformalFallacy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InformalFallacy/pseuds/InformalFallacy) has very politely made a TVTropes page for Open For All ! [Click Here!](https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Fanfic/OpenForAll) to go to it :)

A while after Peter left to get changed, Tony remained sitting at the kitchen table nursing a coffee, his thoughts running a rapid dance between casually irked and officially furious—and it had taken him a while to realise the exact cause. Flattening his hands against his vest, brushing off the invisible specks of lint sitting in the fibres, Tony blew out a long breath and settled his expression into a frown. He turned in his chair to pointedly face the Wizard, who was also frowning. Tony narrowed his eyes for added malice and said, “I can hear you thinking from over here, you know.”

“My head isn’t the only one that’s loud, Stark,” said Strange, his backside resting against the counter.

Rhodey, from where he’d stood himself at the sink to wash out his mug, looked between them both. He motioned from himself to the doorway, “Should I, uh, give you both some more space to think?”

“That would be nice of you, Colonel.”

Rhodey departed immediately, muttering something about going down to see Sam, and left the Man of Science with the Man of Magic to quarrel their decreased and disagreeable headspace.

All remained silent for a couple more seconds until they were sure they were alone, and then Strange opened his mouth to say something—but Tony got there first, “You’ve been a complete idiot.”

Raising his eyebrows, Strange flattened his hands on the countertop behind him. “That sounds like something you’ve said before, Stark – although not to me.” He tilted his head to the left, turning his eyes down on the sink. With a flick of one finger, the washing up was done and neatly tidied to drain off. “All I’ve done of late is to give you what most men would consider wonderful news about their wife.”

Tony leant his elbows onto the table, his leg starting to bounce before he mentally shut off the nervous impulse, and rested his head in his palms to stare at the Wizard. “You know, we have a dishwasher to do that – great bit of tech; probably the best thing about moving back to this goddamn place—God, why do I seem to get stuck with the assholes who don’t like tech? First Steve, then you—is it something to do with the name? Steve? Stephen?”

“Your avoidance tactics haven’t changed, I see,” Strange interrupted, his face falling into his characteristic glower. “Tony-”

“God, why do people only use my name when they’re exhausted by me?” Tony cut in, pulling his lips back into something of a scowl to match the Wizard’s coming temper.

Strange let out a dry, barking laugh. “You’re an _incredibly_ tiring person.”

Tony finished his coffee. “I try.”

“Stark, this is serious,” Strange said, drawing a hand up to push his hair back in a fashion which might have been dramatic had life been an anime.

 _Maybe I do need to treat this seriously_ , thought Tony, but the premise seemed illogical to him. He had to treat a lot of things seriously right now: Peter, Pepper’s pregnancy, the ongoing issues with the Accords, a friggin’ _lawsuit_. Not to mention Harley. He should have been treating Harley a lot more seriously lately, if Steve’s three-minute takedown on him earlier was anything to go by.

At the thought, Tony checked his phone and dialled Harley again. Nope. Still blocked. _He’ll be back for dinner; I’ll talk to him then_.

“Stark? Are you even paying attention to me right now?”

Tony put his phone away and said, “Honestly, you make it difficult not to pay attention to you, Strange. Do you even own a normal pair of clothes?”

“Stark. I know what I saw,” said Strange, finally disregarding Tony’s stupidity and getting to his point with an arrogant bite to his words. “I came to you because I thought it might actually mean something—and from what I’ve seen here-”

“You had a damn nightmare, Stephen,” Tony replied, casting the Wizard a quieting look; on receiving one back, Tony snorted and kept talking, “Fine. _A recurring nightmare_. I have ‘em almost every night—surprisingly, shit affects you for a long time.” He grabbed his cup and went to dump it by the sink—but almost before he’d put it down, Strange had flicked a finger and washed it. Tony jolted around to face him, finding his arms crossed and his open expression staring with an eyebrow raised in his unremarkable self-importance.

But who was Tony to judge another man’s self-importance?

The Wizard tipped his head forwards and said, “I know you want everything to be OK, Tony – but we’ve not been strangers since the Endgame and there’s a reason for that. I’m a good judge of character. You understand, don’t you? I don’t need any ‘wizardry shit’ to see you’re restless.”

“Lots of stuff happening, Strange,” Tony returned, lowering his eyes. “Now, if you don’t mind-”

“Tony. I saw the _world being pulled apart_.” Dr. Strange gave an impressive flick of his hand, energy stinging the air. “ _We need to talk about this_.”

Tony clenched his jaw. “And we will _after_ I’ve helped my son through this press conference—You’re invited, too, you know, if you can find some real clothes to wear.”

“Tony – the _world_. You know what – _and who_ – I saw. This can’t wait another second – you’ve avoided it since we spoke months ago—Tony, please. Please-”

“Stephen.” Tony turned fully to face the Wizard, squaring his shoulders. “I’m Tony Stark, dammit. If the world gets pulled apart, I’ll glue the whole damn thing back together!” With that said through gritted teeth, Tony stalked from the kitchen and down the hallway.

###### 

“Hey, Karen? Can you find out where my class is?”

“I can ask FRIDAY, Peter.” His AI paused a few moments, giving Peter enough time to straighten the dark-blue jacket of his suit. He touched the rich fabric with clean, careful fingers, and swallowed around the lump in his throat, staring at his own face – all sharp angles – in the full-length mirror without an actual care for his clothes—it wasn’t his funeral suit, of course not; Tony wouldn’t have him seen dead in that tattered, ill-fitting thing he’d collected through the years from goodwill and sales racks.

Karen’s reply made him jump two feet into the air. “Currently, they are finishing up a Q&A session in Engineering. Their next stop is Robotics, where there is some planned activity for them.”

“Awh, Ned would love that,” said Peter, and Karen acknowledged him with quaint agreement. As if summoned, his phone let out the pulse of a lightsaber. A few seconds later, as Peter contemplated _to wear a tie, or not, that is the question_ , Ned’s ringtone – some mash-up of songs he’d downloaded off the internet – started up. Seeing Ned’s enlarged face on the screen, Peter let out a loud huff and answered, putting it on speaker and chucking it on his bed. “Hey, Ned.”

“PETER! Peter, what the Hell? You’ve ignored me all day! And on _this day_! I got so worried I called MJ—and you _know_ MJ never answers – and she did! Oh, my God – Peter! Peter, are you even listening?”

“Yes, Ned, I am—I’m getting ready for the press conference.” Peter looked at the ties hanging from his arms, and then ditched them towards the back of his drawer. He didn’t need the added pressure of a tie today; he looked good enough without it.

Ned let out a long, pressed breath. “That’s the exact reason I’m calling, Peter! What’s happening? I got an alert from Pepper Potts on Twitter—and it said there’s going to be a televised press conference! Are you _actually_ going to tell everyone you-”

“That I’m a Stark?” Peter interrupted, sucking in a breath at the words: it was the first time he’d said them aloud in relation to himself and, somehow, it made him feel like both a complete puzzle and incomplete one, too.

Ned practically burst, “Yes! Oh, my God, Peter! You are—you-you totally are! Awh, this is so awesome! I can’t believe you’re _actually going to tell people_. Wait, are you gonna change your name? That’s going to totally mess up the pleasant alliteration you’ve got going.”

Peter picked up his phone as he awkwardly tucked his shirt in with one hand. “I don’t know, Ned. Maybe—it might be easier.”

“Easier? I’ve never known you to go for the easy option, Peter,” came Ned’s voice, as he obviously typed loudly on his laptop’s keyboard, doing nothing for Peter’s nerves. “Easy option woulda been to use your powers for fame and money. Easy option woulda been for you to come out as a Stark and start living on it, Peter. If you wanna change your name, go ahead – but, dude, I don’t think it’ll be the ‘easy option’, at least not right now.”

“No?” Peter said, trying to keep the question out of his tone but the snicker from the other end confirmed he’d slipped. “I mean, no. It’s not going to be the easy option – right now. If I go down there and say, ‘Hi, I’m Peter Stark’ – I mean, what’s that going to do to Tony’s company? I don’t... really know anything about business, but...”

“It could end up being good for it,” Ned replied. “The company, I mean. Just looking at the internet, since Ms. Potts confirmed Rosendale’s rumours, Stark Industries has jumped like... twelve point thingos? You know – on Wall Street.”

“The Stock Exchange,” Peter responded, nodding as though it all made sense to him. He might be good with numbers, but the Stock Exchange was a whole other – _thing_. “So, Pepper explained it to me a few months ago... but I basically think it’s good when it’s up because it’s, like, less shares for more money? I dunno, man.”

Ned made an audible shrug. “Anyway, Mr. Stark having an heir is probably good for the company—you know, carrying on the family business; I think that’s big at your level.”

 _My level?_ Peter raised an eyebrow, even though Ned couldn’t see it. He pressed his lips into a straight line and chanced a glance at the old clock he’d fixed a while ago. It was keeping perfect time, now. He’d considered getting a few more and setting them to international times because it seemed like a thing which would: 1) Look damn cool. 2) Give him an advantage in those random quizzes if he learnt to memorise timezones. 3) Maybe actually sorta kinda help him begin to think about the international aspect of SI.

Not that he’d considered that; of course not. Peter wasn’t a business guy.

With the clock keeping perfect time now though, Peter realised he only had about twenty-five minutes left before he was expected in the conference room. “Ned, are you going to watch?”

“Of course I am,” Ned replied, blowing noisily into his phone. “I got the livestream up already – there’s like fifteen thousand people watching.”

“Wha-what?” Peter gasped. “Fifteen thousand? No. You’re kidding—you mean _fifteen hundred_ , right?”

“Uh, nope... Lemme check—nineteen thousand, now. Wait, is that Flash? Holy shit! The tour’s there!”

Peter groaned, putting his head into one hand. “At least they already know...” He rolled his shoulders and looked up at the thumping of footsteps coming down the hallway. “Uh, Ned, I think I gotta-”

“Oh, yeah – you gotta go, right? Hey, Peter, wait a minute!”

“What, Ned?” Peter asked, as eight knocks hit against his door in a formation. “It’s open, Tony.”

As Tony opened the door and poked his head in, looking hassled, Ned said on the other end of the phone, “Don’t forget about me when you’re wrapped up in being famous, yeah? I totally wanna do that new _Lego_ set with you— _The Avengers Tower_ one.”

Peter snorted and replied, “Sure, Ned. Right after your private tour—I gotta go; Tony’s here. Bye.”

“Hi, Leeds,” Tony called out. “Bye, Leeds.”

“Oh, my God did Tony Stark jus-”

Peter pressed ‘end call’ and turned his head towards Tony, watching as he wandered about the space with casual purpose. He came to the desk, looked at it with a head drop, and then straightened up his harried expression when he turned to Peter. “So, Mr. Parker, are you about ready to go?” he asked formally, pulling down the edge of his sunglasses to stare over the top of frame with a somewhat hesitant look in his eyes.

“Yeah. Am I OK like this?” Peter stood up from his bed and gestured at himself.

Tony drew in a breath and stepped forwards, reaching out to press Peter’s shoulders down and flatten the jacket. “You’ve sorta got an _Elon Musk_ look going on here without the tie—maybe just do up the top button, though; keep your first time in the spotlight looking pretty – you can rock the bad boy aesthetic later.”

“Like you?” Peter asked with a titter, as Tony did the button himself.

“I was never a bad boy,” Tony replied, shaking his head. He took both sides of Peter’s jacket and neatened them up. “Not like you could be, Pete—if you wanted.”

“What do you mean? There are _a lot_ of photos from your time at MIT—you look pretty ‘ _bad boy_ ’ in those, no offence.” Peter corrected one shoulder, and then Tony corrected it too. “I couldn’t do anything like that.”

Tony let out a sigh, his breathing sounding loose. He stood back and collapsed his sunglasses off of his face, gripping them in one fist. “Pete, I’m not going to deny what those photos are – but when you’re a fifteen-year-old kid in college with money, you get invited to clubs and parties so you can _pay_ for everything. Sure, I took the odd girl home – the odd guy, too – but most of the time all I was there for was to pay for shit drinks and shit drugs. Of course I got drunk on whatever I could take from their glasses – because God forbid Tony Stark be allowed to actually have any of the drinks he bought.” He _tsk_ ’ed. “I was mad at Howard, and all I could do at the time to get back at him was drain my card at bars and keep getting straight A’s.

“Most of the time, I kept my head down and did a helluva lot of studying, although there was the odd party I really _embraced_ ,” Tony finished, slipping his hands into his pockets. He shot Peter a smile. “But, hey, if you decide college is what you want, Pete, then you’ll be rich, famous _and_ the right age.”

Peter grimaced. “I don’t think... I could do any of that, Tony.”

“Nah, not your thing. I get it. Your Aunt brought you up right.” Sadness pressed into Tony’s voice. He muffled a soft chuckle in his sleeve. “Did you know Howard nearly named me Steve? After Cap? God, I hated the great and wonderful ‘Captain America’... Anyway, there’s a factoid for you, Pete. I’ve managed to keep that outta the media.”

“What, your almost name?” asked Peter, brushing a hand down his front. “’Cause I think there’s plenty of evidence out there that you and Steve aren’t really friends.”

Tony laughed that time, shaking his head. “I... I’m trying to find some friendship with him, and I’d like to think he’s trying, too... And we got it back together for a while, but...” He ran a hand through his hair. “We’re trying, kiddo—he’s not happy with me right now because of a few things... Actually, one of them is _Harley_. Seems they struck up a friendship without my express permission.” Tony chuckled again, but this time a little nervously, a little on the side of panicking. He cleared his expression a moment later, wiping his eyes. “Anyway; we better get down to that press conference, huh? There’s fashionably late, there’s Stark late, and then there’s just plain late.”

Peter nodded, threw a last glance in the mirror, and then said, “OK. I’m ready.”

Tony opened his sunglasses and pushed them up his nose, giving a last flick when they’d covered his eyes. “Then let’s go, Mr. Parker.”

“-Stark,” Peter breathed, his lips quivering.

Raising an eyebrow as he opened the door, Tony replied, “I thought we were on ‘Tony’ now, kid?”

Peter stepped out into the hallway and cleared his throat, swallowing down the anxious ball of nerves threatening to make an appearance. He looked over his shoulder at Tony and said, “It wasn’t you I was referring to, Tony.” Rising through his hips, Peter put one foot in front of the other and focused on maintaining consciousness.

+

Happy was waiting for them as soon as elevator door opened on the fourth floor. He stood with his face angled downwards and one hand in his pocket.

“Which room, Hap?” Tony asked, having been silent the whole trip down from the penthouse.

“Room Eight, Boss.” Happy gestured them along, although even he looked a little nervous by his regular standards. “There are a lot of reporters,” he said, and Peter wasn’t sure for whose benefit. “We got a few of the _really_ bad ones out, but otherwise we thought it was better to just open it for everyone.”

“Open for all,” Peter muttered below his breath and he heard Tony give a sharp snort.

All was silent between the three, until, “Your class is there,” said Happy. “And Rosendale; she’s in the way back, though. All of them insisted.”

“Great,” Peter replied; although he’d already known his class was there from Ned, and he’d figured Rosendale would demand her being there by default of it being her exposé, he’d been hoping it had been a trick of the light. Dammit. Fine. “And how many people are watching the livestream now?”

Happy tossed him a conscious look, then took out his phone and lit up the screen. A few seconds later he said, “Twenty-two thousand. It’s being played in Times Square, and on the television in SI’s reception.”

Peter armoured himself with the information. “OK... So, bad idea if I were to have a meltdown, then?”

“Not a good idea, Pete; wait a few years,” Tony joked, his hand gently coming to rest on Peter’s shoulder blade, before folding over his shoulder itself and giving a squeeze. They came to the eighth room much too soon, and the blacked out windows did not do much to hide the vast amount of people spread through it; some sitting, some standing. Tony gave a low whistle. “All right, kid: how do you wanna do this?”

Peter blinked at him. “Uh... together?”

A vacant look came over Tony’s face momentarily before he shook himself out of it and gave a nod, swallowing whatever memory Peter had evoked. “Sure, kid.” Tony took a few seconds to remove his sunglasses, letting the sides fall shut. He hung them on his pocket, hesitated, and then gave a laugh to disperse the built-up tension. “Jeez, Pete; you’ve gotten me nervous.”

Heat splashed Peter’s cheeks with vibrant colour. “Oh, uh, I-I’m sorry, Tony.”

Tony waved off the apology. “Don’t mind it. Now, I hope while you were chatting off to Ned you actually figured out what you were going to say to these vultures?”

“Uh...” Peter looked from Tony to Happy, and then to the doorway. “Yes? I mean... Yes?” He breathed, rolling his wrists. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” Tony raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah. I’m ready.” Peter steeled himself, drawing up his reserved strength. “Am I introducing myself, or...?”

“I can do that,” Tony said, arm settling around Peter’s shoulders. He tugged him closer, lowered his head. “What’s yer name, kid?”

Peter pressed his mouth into a line. “Peter B. Parker-Stark. Hyphenated.” He looked at Tony, seeing the gradual acceptance. “No. I... Uh... No... _Ugh_. Names are hard.”

“Yeah, they are, kid,” said Tony, patting his shoulder a few times before dropping his arm. “Let’s go with it for now, OK? I’ve gotten pretty used to hearing FRIDAY say it; rolls right off the tongue.” He waited for Peter’s tentative nod and then turned to Happy. “All right, Hogan.”

The door in front of Peter seemed to open in slow motion. He held his breath, heartbeat drumming through his ears just as loud as the interior ahead, and Peter took a few steps forward to stand in the mouth of the doorway with Tony at his side—thankfully, most of the cameras snapping were without flash and Peter, for something to look at which wasn’t a hundred hungry faces, saw a large sign across the room which read clearly and in bold lettering: **NO FLASH PHOTOGRAPHY**.

 _Pepper thinks of everything_ , he thought with visible relief passing through his features. Peter breathed in and took another few steps and a couple more after that until his concentration was all on making his legs move back and forth, back and forth, to and fro – stride after stride. He swallowed down the swelling panic when reporters started firing off questions at him and newspeople began talking loudly to their adjourned cameras:

“—And here he is – this is the moment we’ve all been waiting for!”  
“-So we—And I do believe, ladies and gents, this is Tony Stark’s son! My, look at that resemblance.”  
“-Here he comes with dad – oh, looking a little nervous. Very understandable.”  
“Whoa! Here comes the Mini Stark!”

 _Eyes ahead_ , thought Peter, feeling the ghost of Tony’s arm around him pressing him to the left and the small staircase. He tried to keep the blush down, having already considered the fact he’d have to jump on to the podium set up at the front of room, but he was thankful for the stairs – they would definitely make him appear less of a child, anyway. Peter stepped up them carefully, subtly aware of picking out the voices of his classmates standing at the side; he couldn’t get a good read on Mr. Harrington’s face, but it was pale, almost transparent, and Peter briefly wondered if he might already know his consigned fate.

Tony turned his body to block most of the cameras and heaved his hand on to Peter’s shoulder, giving it a cautious squeeze before letting go and stepping up to the microphone himself. Peter walked a few steps nearer, setting his jaw, and kept his eyes on Tony despite the several reporters and photographers trying to get his attention.

Clearing his throat, giving the microphone a tap, Tony bought himself time and waited for the room to quieten down. When, eventually, the crews realised the conference was starting they shut up pretty immediately and moved their attention to Tony. He gave a solid nod, and then said, “Well.” He breathed a chuckle. “We’ve been here before, haven’t we?”

Peter couldn’t stop his lips from turning upwards, and the room gave a few uncomfortable laughs.

“OK. I get it. I’m not the main attraction today.” Tony sat back into his hips and threw an arm towards Peter, looking at him, “God, barely out of diapers and he’s stealing my spotlight. Eh, Pete?”

A rush of pens over paper and loud pressing over phones followed Tony’s very pointed use of the shortening of Peter’s name. Peter just smiled, watching Tony’s media persona come over him.

Tony turned back to the press. “He’s usually a lot more talkative than this,” he said. “Says some things he shouldn’t – he gets that from me.” A few proper chuckles came over the room now, but most expressions were either devoid of anything or in gaping shock that this was even real. Tony licked his lips and then got all serious. “But this quiet is because this... wasn’t meant to happen like it is. What’s happening today – this conference – is not happening because my son, Peter, came to me and said he was ready. In fact, he isn’t. He – _we_ – did not want this, but our hand’s been pushed and we collectively decided – as a family – this was our best option, to confirm and address the rumours about my son and the heir to my company.

“I’m not going to stand here and tell the story, but I’ll share a few details. We only found out Peter was my biological son nearly nine months ago, and he came to live with us almost immediately due to certain circumstances. We have actually known each other a lot longer—as Peter was my personal intern, and he remains so – probably the biggest difference now is I can actually ground him and send him to his room if he blows up something.” The audience hummed with tight laughter, slowly breaking. “The other thing I’d like to quickly reconfirm is we will be taking legal action against Maria Rosendale, the OFA Initiative and the Department of Education, for the exposure of my son’s identity, as he is under the legal age of consent, and for disregarding a signed NDA.” Tony cleared his throat, shooting a glare around the room. “I would also like to say we will not hesitate to take anyone else to court if anything ends up in print which we have not expressively allowed.

“Now that that’s out of the way, Peter has actually agreed to answer some questions – although he has every right to deny answering any which make him uncomfortable.” Tony opened his arm again and gestured for Peter to come up. Steeling himself, avoiding the cliché trip up onto the podium, Peter stepped up beside his—beside Tony, and the cameras started clicking as Tony’s arm draped over his shoulder and pulled him close, using his other hand to point at Peter and introduce him. “Everyone, please, meet my son: Peter B. Parker-Stark.”

Peter stood overlooking the journalists and the reporters, as cameras clicked and questions started flying out like it was damn near the end of the world and everyone wanted the last word.

But all Peter truly heard was the rapid stillness of his own breathing and the almost inaudible words Tony said in his ear before stepping to one side:

“Knock ‘em dead, kid.”

Peter swallowed down all the nerves and reached to tap the microphone. The clamouring room fell silent, a few reporters continuing to narrate but otherwise everyone stood and sat waiting like they were witnessing a moment in history. Maybe in corporate history they were. “Uh, hello,” Peter greeted, coughing into the back of his hand. He ached to move; every one of his limbs restless. “I’m Peter. Uh, I’m Mr.—uh, I’m Tony’s son.” Pens drew across notepads; a few reporters looked somewhat sceptical, passing glances from Tony to Peter. “I—he’s my dad, but, um, we aren’t there yet,” Peter added, lips quivering into a smile as a few people _aww_ ’ed. “Uh, I’m seventeen, and I’m currently a student-”

Someone from his class – Peter thought it might be Charles – _whooped_. Peter used the moment to take in and let out a few deep breaths. When the reporters returned their attention, he said, “I like science, and biology, and... My favourite Avenger is Iron Man.”

The room gave a few good-mannered chuckles and to the side Peter heard Tony give a committed laugh. Some of the tension brushed away, and Peter started up again, “Everything Tony said is basically right... It’s been my choice to stay under the radar this long and, if Ms. Rosendale hadn’t outed me, I would be continuing under that radar.” He cleared his throat, spotting a practically dirty-eyed look from a tabloid reporter at the front. “But that isn’t because I want to mislead the public or because of anything else you might have heard. The reason is, uh, actually really simple.”

Peter drew back a little, looking toward one camera with its blinking light. He stared at it, perhaps too long, before returning his mind to the present and nearing the microphone. “It’s because I was scared. That fear, a lot of it this week, has hurt a lot more people than just me—including Tony.” He hadn’t imagined those looks now, Peter was sure; the forlorn settled glint Tony’s eyes had encompassed in the past week every time something near to this idea had come up. “Until eight months ago, I’d been a private citizen my entire life. It was actually only really recently Tony told me he and Pepper had jointly decided I would inherit Stark Industries, and that sorta threw me for a loop so – yeah – I’m still pretty new at this. I understand there’s probably a lot of questions, but like Tony said I won’t answer any I’m uncomfortable with.” He learnt closer to the microphone, and then jolted back when his mouth actually touched it; it drew a few charmed looks and chortles. “Uh, so please respect that!” Peter quickly added, blushing.

A couple of reporters jostled each other as they came forward. A brightly-coloured young man got there first and hurriedly began, “Hello, Peter. Mark Wright of _Fox News_. We were earlier informed your mother wasn’t Pepper Potts—are we allowed to know who your mother is, then? Are you still in contact? Do you see one another regularly? Or is Mr. Stark now your sole guardian?”

“Hi, Mark,” Peter replied, stalling. “Uh, we don’t actually watch _Fox News_ in the Tower, so I don’t really know who you are.” A couple of loud snorts from the other networks around the room were heard and, if Peter wasn’t mistaken, that near-thunderous ‘Hah’ was Happy. “But I’ll take your question... My mother was Mary Fitzpatrick. She died when I was little with, uhm- her husband, in a plane crash.” Not looking at his class, remembering his lie, Peter said, “Tony is my sole guardian, yes.” He didn’t miss the confused sounds of his class and teachers – after all, he’d mentioned May was still alive.

Mark looked a little put out, but begrudgingly moved away to let a lithe woman walk close; she brought her feet together before looking up, brushing out her pencil skirt as though it mattered. “Peter, hi. Melanie Mansfield of the _BBC_. I’m sorry about your mother – but who is it you’ve been living with all these years, then? Have you been in foster care?”

“Hi. I like the _BBC_ ’s intro tune for the news, by the way—So, I was actually living with my Aunt until she died suddenly. We’d found out Tony was my biological father not long before. I assume May, my Aunt, I assume she was aware she wasn’t well and made plans, as I was transferred into Tony’s care pretty immediately. I don’t know the finer details, and it’s not a conversation I’ve had with him, so I’d like not to say anything else.” Peter touched his throat, parched. A second later, Tony pushed a bottle into his hands and he took a long drink before adding, “I’ve never been in the foster system, to the best of my knowledge.”

Tony shifted a little, looked to aside, Peter thought, but he was busy drinking down his water before he had to return his mind to the present matter of the press conference.

More harmless questions followed from the more international news corporations: “What’s it like living with the Avengers?” “Who else knew you were Tony’s son before today’s announcement?” “Where did you live before now?” “Have you ever used the Iron man suit?”

Little did Peter know, as he got more and more comfortable, it was the calm before the storm.

“Debby Ferraro of _The Daily Bugle_.” She was a fine-boned woman, with the look of someone who’d lived twenty years in the past twenty minutes. Peter inclined her head for her to speak. “I was just wondering – your name. I didn’t quite get it—Peter B. Parker-Stark, was it?”

“Yes.”

“Legally?”

“Uh... No. Not yet,” said Peter, trying to loosen the grip he had on the stand. “I’m still... uncomfortable with the Stark surname, to be honest. I’d like to take it, but I am still somewhat attached to –Parker. This is currently the solution.”

She pursued the line of inquiry like a starved dog after a rat. “And what, Mr. _Parker_ , does the ‘B’ stand for?”

“Benjamin,” Peter said immediately, shifting at her tone. He cast a glance at Tony, who still looked a little uncomfortable. “I’m, uh, my middle name—I’m named after Benjamin Parker, my mom’s husband’s brother. He was – I thought he was my uncle. He, uhm, he was shot a few years ago – before the Snap years, I mean.”

“And were your Uncle and Aunt aware you weren’t a blood relation to either of them?”

Peter cleared his throat, pinching his lips. “I think? When I went into Tony’s care, there was a folder of paperwork my Aunt had kept. From what I’ve been told, there were letters between my par—between Mary and Richard Parker, and Uncle Ben—where it was said, but I haven’t seen them myself.”

“You haven’t? Why is that, Mr. Parker?” Debby got closer. “Do you think Mr. Stark is purposefully keeping information away from you? And why is it, if your Aunt and Uncle knew, they hadn’t contacted Mr. Stark for monetary compensation? Raising a child is not a cheap expense.” She tilted her head up, standing right below the podium. “How did you even come to know he was your biological father?”

“Tony offered me an internship after seeing my work at a science fair,” said Peter, carefully, looking at Tony himself: he was staring at the woman, a look of wicked intent in his eyes, and his mouth pushed down at the corners with some disgust. Peter steeled his heart against her words; Tony wouldn’t withhold information about him, would he? He prioritised communication between them. Sure, Peter had never seen those documents, although he knew Pepper kept the folder tucked away in her office, but what could they really say? He—

He knew pretty much everything about himself, right? “As his intern, we worked closely in the lab. There was an explosion one day and blood was taken. The DNA matched up.” Peter swallowed. “There was also an official and independent test done later, too, as a confirmation. It was conclusive.”

Debby waited a few seconds more, the silence ringing in Peter’s ears, before she said, “You didn’t answer all of my questions.”

“I reserve the right not to answer any I feel uncomfortable with,” Peter responded, hardening his voice. He added, “Or ones which I don’t _know_ the answer to. Tony’s told me he never knew about me, and that’s good enough for me.” Peter flicked a look around the room, frowning.

The next question came from _PBS_ , delivered by a small, gaunt man Peter hadn’t caught the name of: “What are you looking to get out of the lawsuit against Ms. Rosendale? As I understand it, she is saying it was in the public’s best interest to know—do you not think so?”

Peter, a little flustered and somewhat angered by Debby Ferraro’s pushing, replied, “I don’t know a lot about law, but I’ve watched enough movies to know I can’t comment on an active case.” He took another drink of water. “Sorry.” Peter shot Tony a glance, but the man’s eyes were vacantly looking across the reporters.

Lifting his eyes to the rest of the room, Peter acknowledged Dr. Strange was leaning against the back wall with a shaking palm over his mouth, elbow resting in other hand. His stare kept skipping from Peter to Tony, and then back. Almost more surprisingly, he was wearing a clean, dark suit instead of his robes: For all intents and purposes, he looked exactly like every other reporter in the room.

Peter wouldn’t deny Dr. Strange’s presence in the Tower had been far more obvious lately. Despite the distance he’d kept after the Endgame, suffering from the loss of the Time Stone, he’d more than made up for it in the past few months. More than once, Peter had nearly walked straight through one of his portals—the energy drawing him towards them more often than not; and there was the one time, he distinctly recalled, coming back from school to find Strange in the lab – the _lab_ – with Tony, both of them talking quietly as Tony tinkered with something quite more mindlessly than usual.

Peter hadn’t been able to conceal his being there for long, only catching the tail-end of what sounded like a lengthy conversation. Maybe it was just the time they’d spent together on Titan, maybe it was how, when the Blip happened and Peter woke up around the coppery madness of the planet, Dr. Strange was at his side and gripping his shoulder with shivering fingers, almost like how Tony’s hand had held his head before the Dusting, or maybe it was just the _feeling_ of the man, but Peter knew in his heart he was completely safe with him: he might have a stern side, might sometimes use dry wit to communicate his fondness, but that didn’t really matter; Peter was used to all of that with Tony anyway.

There was just something distinctly calming about Dr. Strange’s being there, so stately, almost like a godfather. It filled Peter with a dosage of strength and he returned his consciousness to the press conference. Obviously, he must have missed a question or something because Tony was giving him a somewhat confused expression.

“Pete?” he said, eyebrow raised. “D’you tune out there, bambino?”

 _That’s a new one_ , thought Peter, and he gave a small nod. “Uh, yes? Sorry, I-I got in my head. What was the question?”

+

It felt like hours before Peter was wrapping up, but in reality it was only about forty minutes. He’d taken a few more questions after the man from _PBS_ , but not many; and he’d been surprised when Tony remarked quietly, inaudible to any human ear, they’d hit half an hour and everything would start to drag now; people would start getting bored and stop paying attention to anything meaningful in Tony’s vast experience.

So, despite a few journalists still hankering to get their questions answered, Peter called the conference to a close. “Uh, so, I think I’ve probably answered most of the big questions now...” Peter twisted his mouth to the side, trying to remember how Tony usually wrapped up press conferences, other than the iconic ones, of course. He was more than a little stuck, considering he didn’t exactly have any big revelations which hadn’t already been said or, mostly, confirmed.

If this had taught him anything, he was going to have to work on public speaking.

Peter slicked a hand through his hair and coughed, chancing a glance at Tony but he was seemingly distracted by something on his watch, clicking his fingers over it madly.

Great. He was on his own, then. Peter wetted his lips and leant toward the microphone. “So, yeah, I’m Peter. I hope you don’t mind it’s taken me a little long to get here and that I’ve still got further to go. It’s a whole new chapter, and I’m... looking forward to it.” He gave a ‘thumbs up’, adding last but not least. “SI is about helping people, and that’s what I really want to do with my time. Thank you for respecting that.”

“Mr. Parker!” called one reporter, and then another, “Mr. Parker-Stark!” Another, a little unsure, called out, but probably because he was purposing an awkward idea in the first place: “Mr. Stark Jr!”

Peter raised his hands to them, caught the camera’s eye and said, “Please. Just call me Peter.” With that said, and Tony having finally torn his eyes away from his watch, Peter stepped down off the heightened podium towards him. A moment later, undeterred by the watchful eyes of the room and the cameras of the world, Tony was the one who brought Peter into a hug.

+

“I’m sorry I had to leave the tour, sir,” said Peter to Mr. Dell after Happy and a few of SI’s security guards had rounded up the press and taken them away. Rosendale, although Peter had only caught the briefest flash of her, was gone, too. When he’d indirectly asked, Happy offhandedly said she’d been taken to a room on _floor 13_.

(As stated, Peter didn’t know much about business, but he’d heard those words from Happy before and knew they meant something like: she was in a room on an otherwise unattainable floor being spoken to by SI’s top team of lawyers. The lawsuit was definitely going to go ahead, but a lot of things could be swept under the rug if she made a few... adjustments and made a few pleas.

Usually, a few threats would go a long way, especially when you got to this height of business.

Unfortunately – or fortunately, however you looked at it – Rosendale was a brat, so Peter wasn’t sure it would work.)

“Uh, well, under the circumstances, I think it’s... fine. Just... have a note on our desks on Monday,” said Mr. Dell, rubbing the back of his neck. “I would ask if you’d like to rejoin us, but I think it would probably be best if ya didn’t.”

“I agree,” Peter replied, his body sagging. “I’m sorry for railroading the tour, Mr. Dell.”

“Hey, hey – it’s all right. Kids probably learnt more from this than from anywhere else—no offence to SI.”

“Trust me, I get it: OFA is... awkward,” Peter sighed, throwing a look across to where his class were meeting Sam, Wanda and Clint—the last of whom having turned off his hearing aids if the non-evident feedback from their electronic pulses were anything to go by. He was harmlessly nodding along to everything, smiling casually, and Peter envied him.

“Well,” Mr. Dell said with an up-tilt in his voice, sticking a hand in his pocket. “Maybe we won’t have to deal with them for long.” He looked like he wanted to say something else, maybe elbow Peter and give him a wide grin, but he didn’t do any of that—maybe because Happy was standing right next to them, watching carefully. Before Peter had a chance to reply, Mr. Dell turned towards his class and said, “All right – think we’re expected in Robotics, right, Marty? We still on for Robotics, right? Wanna see me one of them _Robot War_ types.”

As he walked away, Happy turned to Peter and said, “Think I’m beginning to agree with your dad, kid. Better to get you out of that school—better on the gas bill, too.” He swept a hand over his forehead, his eyes softening. “Of course, Peter, Boss wouldn’t want you unhappy; if you wanna stick the term and graduate, I doubt he’d stop you.”

Peter picked at the skin beside his thumbnail. “It’s one of the best STEM schools around here, Happy. Plus, I got in on scholarship: I feel I should finish.”

Happy nodded in understanding. “I get that, kid—but just so you know, the Boss has already got FRIDAY compiling a list of top tutors.” He checked his watch. “I gotta get to my appointment. Straight up to the penthouse after this, yeah? And _stay there_.”

“Sure, Happy,” Peter replied, and then stopped, drawing back slightly. “Didn’t you just have an appointment with the doctors? Are you OK, Happy?”

“I’m fine,” Happy replied, perhaps a little too quickly. “Routine. Don’t get old, kid.” With that said, stuffing his hands into his pockets, Happy left.

Peter watched him go. A crack in the air around him had him turning to face Dr. Strange, standing within an arm’s distance. “Peter,” Dr. Strange greeted, pleasant, but with that undeniable quirk to his voice.

“Hi- uh. Hi, Dr. Strange,” Peter replied, pulling at the ends of his sleeves. “I saw you in the back.”

“Yes, I wanted a front row seat to tomorrow’s papers,” said Dr. Strange, rolling his shoulders. “I can’t quite make up my mind, though: do you think you spoke well, Peter?”

“I tried,” Peter replied, pursing his lips. He cleared his throat and started on something he maybe shouldn’t, “You’ve been around here an awful lot lately.”

“Ah, so that’s what you were thinking.” Dr Strange made a downward movement with his hand, like he would have once clicked his fingers. “You blanked out a little at one point; I thought at first you were trying to be smart like Stark, but you did drag it on a little.”

Peter knew avoidance tactics very well; he also knew Dr. Strange wasn’t actually someone who tended to use them except in extreme cases. “What’s going on?” asked Peter, the tentative edge to his voice gone. “You and Tony have been talking a lot more lately—he even lets you portal into the lab sometimes.”

“Well, we know a well-minded opponent when we see one,” Dr. Strange replied, holding his head up. “We might get on each other’s nerves, Peter, but we buried the hatchet some time ago; I know I won’t change his mind about the mystic arts, and I don’t let him convince me too surely of science’s endless possibilities...” The reflection in his eyes, Peter noted, was of something guilty, of shame. Peter knew all too well the effect of those emotions. Dr. Strange continued in a quieter voice, “But I think we’ve found some respect—at least, I have—for one another.

“Anyway, Peter. All in all, how has your field trip been?”

Peter wanted to laugh, like; he really did, because the nonchalance in Dr. Strange’s voice was practically a parallel to the constant smash of the day’s events. “Honestly? Probably the best one yet, all things considered,” Peter replied, attempting a smile, as he watched from over Dr. Strange’s shoulder Martyn wave to him as he left to continue the long-abided tour. “How much longer are you staying, Dr. Strange?”

“A day or so,” he replied with a shrug. “If I’m needed at the sanctum, Wong can give me a call.”

“You have a phone?” Peter gapped. “Why don’t I have your number, Dr. Strange?”

“Why would you?” Dr. Strange responded, eyebrow raised. “Having one asshole genius texting me at all hours about those stupid _Starlinks_ is enough, thank you.” He paused, as though in consideration, and then added, “You know, Peter, you can call me Stephen if you want; you and I have an understanding, now.” Pushing back his coat, the Wizard took a glance at his watch and said, “I think it’s time for my next coffee.”

Peter nodded at him in a such-and-such understanding—although somewhat wishing he’d not been pushed away so evidently on his curious questions. Putting those thoughts with the pile of other ones he was thinking on, Peter made himself smile and said, “OK – uh, see you later... Stephen.”

Looking over his shoulder, Stephen gave a nod and smile before summoning a portal and whisking himself straight into the penthouse kitchen. By the cut off shout and the smash of a mug from the other side, Peter thought he might have startled Rhodey.

Peter turned around, but his forced smile faded away when he realised he was the last person in Conference Room Eight, now. Sam, Wanda and Clint must have left either with the class or just after it, and Dr.—uh, Stephen was gone, and Happy, too. Tony had stayed behind a little while, said how well it went, and then left to ‘deal with something’.

So just like that, on a day unlike no other, Peter was left standing alone after what was perhaps the biggest event of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No bonus this time ! Savin' 'em up a lil' ;) Stay safe all ! -J


	12. Cornerstone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A father deals with something.  
> A son doesn't deal with something.  
> They have a conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _*Tugs 12k-word chapter across to you* mr'ruff_
> 
> Thank you guys for all the love and kudos and comments you've given OFA over the past month and a bit ! We had a huge increase in the hit counter since last chapter. It's meant the world to me to see you guys get so excited over my writing and my storyline, and to see you guys stick with me through the twists and turns has been a marveling experience for me. From the bottom of my heart, a huge thank you.  
> Now, saying all that: This isn't the end. We got one last chapter of OFA and then we'll be moving into - drum roll, please - _The World Was Wide Enough_ ! So, that'll be fun. I'll be posting up the first chapter of that straight after the last chapter of OFA.  
> I hope you'll enjoy this current chapter, and will continue reading into the next story, too !
> 
> NOTES:  
> 1) Credit to **meresger** for helping sort out May's storyline way back in the comments of chap. 5 and letting me run with it. I hope this gives the best closure to her character in this AU.  
> 2) Harley's Playlist (basically the What Happened to HarleyTM side-story) was updated a few days back ! Quick reminder it is rated as **mature** and so please **read n' heed the tags**. I recommend reading it if you'll be continuing the story after OFA to get the full breakdown on Harley, but it's not completely necessary. [Chap 1](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23691736/chapters/56881876#workskin) | [Chap 2 (New !)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23691736/chapters/57191338#workskin). (You can click the next work arrow in the OFA series)  
> 3) Disclaimer: I have barely any legal knowledge in relation to dealing with guardianship, adoption and custody. I have researched in general terms, but it is not my field of knowledge. I'm just doing my best to tell the story.
> 
> ###### 
> 
> The awesome [InformalFallacy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InformalFallacy/pseuds/InformalFallacy) has very politely made a TVTropes page for Open For All ! [Click Here!](https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Fanfic/OpenForAll) to go to it :)

Tony walked steadfastly down the Floor 13 corridor, eyeing the dark offices and quiet meeting rooms with abiding suspicion. Although a large portion of SI’s business got done on this floor, Tony didn’t trouble himself to visit it often enough to stay within _the know_ of everything which went on. He kept somewhat separate from corporate shadiness, despite what the media might think, and preferred to let a team of professionals and experts handle the ‘tame evil’ and gritty underbelly of the government and media.

But this bitch deserved his full fucking wrath.

She’d ruined what should have been a day of confidence for Peter; what should have been a moment of his coming into his own. Yes, Tony would admit he’d helped – but that’s an old conversation now, and not worth the time it would take to go over it.

Tony flicked a glance at his watch as he’d done in the press conference, but this time it didn’t have the full-caps lock and blatant bolded text of: **HARLEY KEENER: CURRENT WHEREABOUTS UNKNOWN**. He’d sworn when he saw it, mainly in his head, getting himself distracted after having asked FRIDAY to get him a location when Rogers kept pestering his texts that the boy wasn’t answering his phone. Dammit. He’d have to sort that out soon; he’d likely just turned off the tracker, the little ass and his smart-alecky ways...

But... Tony wasn’t about to admit it aloud – he couldn’t; he had to keep an emotionless facade for the moment – but he was worried. Harley wasn’t a bad kid, and his acting out in such aggression was unusual, especially towards Peter; the two were almost like brothers with how they adored each other. Not to Tony and Rhodey’s level, but there was definitely love there.

He shouldn’t have gotten so upset with Harley last night. Tony knew that without having had to deal with Rogers’s cool outrage—and his more biting words earlier today, too. Obviously something was wrong and Tony had to set his mind to it for both his boys’ sakes.

Not that he considered Harley ‘ _his boy_ ’ like he considered Peter his boy, but...

Tony ran a hand down his face and wished they had a coffee machine down here; one of those Japanese ones with the warm canned coffee. Maybe he should look into acquiring one of companies which did them and bring them over mainstream America—they’d be an absolute hit, and getting a piece of the beverage market didn’t seem a bad idea, per say.

Or maybe he could just buy some stocks.

 _Dammit, maybe Strange is right; maybe I am delaying dealing with some of this shit_. Tony shook his head and continued onwards with stunted purpose in his flagging stride, raising a hand to smooth heat across his heart. His fingers unconsciously caught on his nano housing unit, hidden just beneath his shirt on Rhodey’s advice for the press conference.

Counting the doorways, Tony finally found the red light turned green. He paused in front of it and moved the shade to glance in; a horde of his lawyers – the best in the shady business kind – were clustered to the side of a paperwork-cluttered desk. Sitting behind it, one Maria _Marcy_ Rosendale wearing a pompous smirk to rival any of the ones Tony practiced in the mirror before big press conferences.

One thing Tony had not neglected to mention as of late was his absolute distaste for her and her running of the Department of Education. Her, her cronies and her OFA scheme were a damned joke; pulling funding from underprivileged schools to fund her wet dream of an educational system tailored to the ambitions of the wealthy while seemingly advocating for children from less affluent backgrounds to succeed, as she destroyed every chance of them actually doing so. Sick bitch.

Tony kept some very negative opinions of little shits like her who thought kids – kids like _Harley_ – didn’t deserve to achieve because they couldn’t cough up the big bucks. Despite the media’s portrayal of him, Tony had a heart. He _wanted_ to see kids defying the odds and putting a finger up at those asshats who did practically everything they could to fuck over their education.

He’d gone so far in his belief to completely overhaul the September Foundation and begin finding and funding suitable internships and placements for kids who needed that extra boost to get where they needed – he’ll admit he opened the damn thing at MIT, and a lot of the first recipients had come from substantial wealth – but a lot had changed since then; he had a whole team working on it now, contacting schools and offering advice. He’d met a few of the kids himself and spoken to them about their experiences with his program—and not just for the spotlight.

The September Foundation was a big part of his legacy now, and that’s exactly how he wanted it.

Although Tony let Peter continue his scholarship with Midtown, he’d forbidden him from seeking any more from universities and colleges – just as he’d done for Harley (and his sister, Lindsey, but he maintained it was repayment for her watch). His kids weren’t about to take scholarships away from kids who couldn’t otherwise afford them and, though Tony didn’t like to consider himself a ‘strict’ parent, this was something he put his foot down on. He could afford to put them through school on his dollar, and he would.

Just as he was doing for Clint’s kids, and just as he’d agreed to do for Cassie – Scott Lang’s daughter. It was the very least he could do for them after the first Accords mess.

Tony took in a brief breath, raising his hand to knock bruised knuckles across the door. One of his lawyers looked up – younger than the others; a brilliant bespectacled guy with a fierce personality and several pieces of paper from top doctors confirming he had psychopathic and sociopathic tendencies. On seeing them, Tony hired him immediately and he’d proven himself within the first few weeks after disposing discreetly of a particularly annoying lawsuit.

Yes, Tony had morals; however, he also had a very wealthy business and an expensive job on the side—and kids. He had kids.

The lawyer trotted across and opened the door with practiced motion, his face arranged into an appropriate smile. “Dr. Stark,” he greeted, making a show of himself with a bow. He opened one arm towards his fellows and the Secretary. “We had assumed you’d be joining us at some point. The Secretary has been read her rights.”

“That’s great, Taran Good boy.” Tony breezed past him with a faint pat to his lithe shoulder. He received a genteel, high chuckle in response. From what little Tony had managed to dig up on guy, he had a _certain love_ for praise and Tony was willing to give whatever got the work done – especially on Floor 13.

The other lawyers stepped away from the desk, one gathering a few pieces of scattered paper with a plethora of signatures to place in a small pile in front of where Tony came to stand. He widened his stance, removing his sunglasses and collapsing them with one hand to hang from the breast pocket of his suit’s jacket. Brushing off a speck of nothing, Tony dragged his phone from his pocket and flicked it at a screen to the right of them, all while looking at the Secretary’s pinched expression.

“Maria Marcy Rosendale,” Tony recited calmly in the silence, transferring his phone to his left hand. He brought his right around his wrist, rolling back his shoulders. “Born 1968 as Maria Chadwick-Richards in Charlottesville, Virginia to the wealthy family of the same name with—get this titbit I found buried in your _wiki_ —ties to Hammer Industries and the Roxxon Energy Corporation.” He pressed his lips into a frown. “Married and divorced twice, with a current boytoy called Allan Lufkin. Two children from your first marriage, one from your second and another who you’ve claimed is not actually yours...” Tony raised his eyebrows, dipping his head forwards. “I’d love to stand around and hear about that, but I already did the research and – my, my, Miss Secretary – you’ve kept that well-hidden, haven’t you? It took me at least two hours the other night and involved digging through a good chuck of Egypt’s internet, as well as calling in some favours, but I got there eventually.”

A look of flared panic crossed her face. “Mr. Stark-”

“Uh-uh.” Tony removed the hand from his wrist to waggle a finger. “Here, you’ll address me as _Doctor Stark_ , Miss Secretary. I like making use of my doctorates when I can, considering how much the paper cost.” Rolling his neck, Tony flicked his phone at the screen again and it changed to an article. “I pay my taxes and, as a philanthropist, spend a substantial amount of my personal wealth investing in people—but I still get pulled to court every other Wednesday because of my side job. But it’s astounding the things people like you get away with, ma’am.” He opened his arm to the screen. “Look at that, Miss Secretary. Exhibit A: cutting _that_ much away from the special educational needs part of your budget should be illegal. And exhibit B: your precious OFA Initiative—this was the official verdict of it from an independent educational body-” Tony cleared his throat to read the highlighted text. “ _This Initiative will draw considerable funds away from unban school planning and increase the requirements needed to fulfil most fully-funded scholarships, as well as eradicating over half of the rural school’s budget_. Wow—and you still got it through – with a nice pay rise on top of it.

“Now, I’ll hand it to you, Miss Secretary: you fought _hard_ to hide this little gem here – you seem quite capable at doin’ that. Maybe I’d hire you if I didn’t despise you so much.” Tony brushed his thumb over the screen and, instead of throwing this article on to the television he’d been using all this time, he flicked it onto the one behind Rosendale herself. She turned in her chair as Tony read the headline, “Education Secretary accused of embezzlement to fund gambling addiction.” Tony watched the colour drain from her face. “The same article also goes on to state you have three outstanding counts of _child endangerment_ against you.” Tony took back the picture with a flick and slipped his phone into an inside pocket. “That’s grim, Miss Secretary. That’s grim.”

He held his wrist again, as Rosendale turned back around in her seat to stare at the real wood of the dark desk, shaking hands clasped in her lap. It was a small thing, but Tony liked to have real wooden desks on Floor 13; it was funny how people were so much more responsive when the intimidations of money were involved. “I could go on,” Tony said, watching her sink further into her seat. “I could mention, from your time spent as Health Secretary, how you were instrumental in doing away with the previous government’s pre-funded EpiPens plan introduced as a relief effect after the Snap—or how about the funding cut pushed through for mental health services? I have a kid who has been directly affected by that because his teacher couldn’t get the help he needed.” Tony started shaking his head, looking across to his lawyers who were standing still and stoic in the dark of the office. “Talking about teachers – how about voting down that _1% pay increase?_ ”

Tony leant forwards, boring holes into her tipped-down head. “Miss Secretary,” he whispered into the quiet, hearing her sharp intake of breath. “I could ruin you, and I would take _so much_ pleasure in doing so.”

The defiance in her eyes spelled her death to Tony when she raised her head, but he let her speak: “But what would your precious son think?” she asked, and Tony kept a careful facade. “From what I’ve seen of him, _Stark_ , I can’t imagine he’d ever want you to do that.”

“True,” Tony replied immediately. “He was brought up well – and maybe that’s because I wasn’t there – but you’ll be amazed how much of a Stark Peter really is, Miss Secretary.” He considered her side-eye at his lawyers, but dismissed it. “It’s the ol’ nature versus nurture debate. It’s a debacle, if you ask me. I’ve seen people turned into murderers – was that always in their nature? Or were they nurtured into it? Bit of both, if you ask me.”

Tony cleared his throat and flicked through the paperwork on the desk in front of him. “Now, I’m sure my lawyers have already told you we’re proceeding with the lawsuit against you for exposing my son’s identity, and putting him in danger because of it.” He pulled out the NDA from amongst the sheets of paper and pushed it across. “You really sealed your fate when you decided to disregard that NDA, Maria.”

She pressed her mouth into a thin line of too little lip. “Why are you doing this, Stark?” she asked less than kindly, the haunting presence of humanity entering the fragile tone she quickly manifested to speak in. It didn’t fool Tony, being of a mind to associate with psychopaths. “Surely, you wouldn’t see someone feathered and tarred because of a few _character misgivings?_ Hm?”

Tony nearly gapped. He manages not to, just, but mainly because he was also trying hard not to laugh. “Miss Secretary,” he said, taking out his phone and pointing it at her. “For that comment alone, I am going to make your life hell.”

+

Tony left his lawyers to pick over the finer details of everything. He’d washed his hands of several things before – weaponry, fraud, disagreements, company takeovers—he’d help destroy entire cities and gone home a hero in some peoples’ eyes. He was not about to personally dirty up his nails going through paperwork to have that bitch’s life ruined.

He had people for that.

And those things were not his legacy. He’d worked hard to make sure they weren’t; the weapons were mostly gone, and the fraud issues had been sorted out during the Snap Years thanks to almost all of his Board of Directors turning to dust. Company takeovers – even aggressive ones – were a natural part of the business world, and those disagreements? Most were personal.

Most he also very personally dealt with.

Otherwise, he had the Stark Relief Fund for other disasters. Wanda’s presence in the tower – though a noncommittal event now; she preferred staying with Laura Barton and completing her degree remotely – reminded Tony constantly of Sokovia and the mark they’d left in Eastern Europe. It was being sorted—apparently Fury and Maria Hill were spending some time there before the next Accords Summit—and Tony was bankrolling several scholarships to bring work and prospect back to the recovering region.

His legacy was everything they’d built from the ashes of the burning shame of the past. His legacy was the hope of the future to right the wrongs they were committing now and which even he, Tony Stark, could not completely solve despite his genius. Pepper’s leadership of SI and their now-solid relationship were his legacy, as was their unborn child—and Peter. Peter was a big part of Tony’s legacy; even if he hadn’t been his son, Tony had long-held onto the possibility of entrusting his company to a young mind like his own. Peter fit that bill.

Harley had too, once, but...

Tony pulled his head back to the present and walked along the hallway, seeing his next appointment on Floor 13 just ahead of him. This wasn’t going to be as bad as the last one; in fact, he was actually assuming there’d be tears of gratitude. Peter was the only reason he was even making sure this guy didn’t end up where he belonged—which was definitely in jail, according to not just him but Rhodey, Steve, Bucky and Pepper and a couple other people. And Happy. God. Happy wanted the guy hung, drawn and quartered.

As soon as Tony found the green-lit door, he twisted the doorknob and stepped inside with a breathy chuckle and a greeting which consisted solely of the name of the man sitting behind the real wood desk: “Mr. Harrington.” Tony shut the door on their private conversation with his hip.

###### 

Peter wasn’t unused to being alone. Despite his inactivity lately as Spider-Man, the superhero job – especially when you have a secret identity under the mask – prepares you for the silence stretches of your own voice and the rapid screaming of your own head.

It takes him all of five minutes to decide to sit a while on the same chair he was half-sure the man from _PBS_ had sat on during the majority of the press conference, the one doing his best to look unexplainably pissed.

Peter wasn’t so sure, sitting there, he did all that well with the conference. Taking a second to glance at his muted phone, he discovered Ned had already called him twice and MJ had sent him five texts—the last of which started with: _‘All right loser that was...’_. Peter closed out of his messages. He stared at his phone’s background.

As Peter had learnt earlier, Tony’s phone background was a picture of Peter himself sprawled out in the grass taken on that nice day when Tony at random decided they needed some time out of the city on the other side of those woods. While Peter couldn’t be wholly certain, he did think he knew Tony well enough by now to figure out – and from seeing the phone today – that Tony was one of those people who didn’t change their background an awful lot; they tended to keep it as something familiar, something right, something grounding.

Something _loved_.

Peter was not one of those people. He changed his background like he changed shirts; always finding some cool new art or some entertaining meme. The ‘Pikachu shock face’ had been his phone’s background for three weeks, which he thought was likely his record.

Except, looking at his current background, he wasn’t sure he wanted to change it anytime soon. It wasn’t a good picture by any means; it had that sorta grainy edge and the focus was slightly off, leaving the two faces on it a little awkwardly smeared—but it almost had that old quality feel to it, which was likely the sole reason he’d kept the damn thing anyway.

It wasn’t anything special, either: just a selfie of him and Harley from just before they’d begun working on that stupid engine. He had a thousand or more backed up exactly like it, but this one...

He’d set it as his background two minutes before the damned car blew up. Two minutes before he realised Harley was about to die. Two minutes before he hadn’t thought, he’d just acted – acted like your friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man looking out for the little guy—only the little guy in this instance was Harley Keener, who’d looked almost like he didn’t want to be saved.

Peter couldn’t forgive himself if anything happened to Harley.

The sudden quiet of the room was harrowing. His Spidey Sense was usually great; it told him everything from _holy shit there’s Lego on the floor_ to _hey, look, that building’s coming nearer at an alarming rate, isn’t it?_ But right now, despite everything else telling him something was definitely wrong, his Spidey Sense was telling him absolutely nothing. There was no warning, no unexplainable moment of unprovoked shivering, no _HOLY CRAP something is definitely wrong_ invasive thought. None of it – nada.

There was just the silence Harley always filled. That should be warning enough, Peter supposed; it wasn’t like they had any special connection, or some weird telepathic contact methods with each other. They just had themselves, drawn together out of circumstances. A couple of missing puzzle pieces discovered beneath a cushion.

Peter massaged his neck and reached down to grab his water, slipping his phone back into a pocket for now. He uncapped the bottle and drank deeply, practically emptying it. Standing up, Peter turned the chair and then sat back down, leaning on its back with his front; it took him a pause to realise he hadn’t sat like this in months. It was a cooling realisation in the middle of a conference room: here he sits – ‘wrongly’ – having just announced to the world’s press he’s not just some kid from Queens. That he is, in fact, the rumoured son of Tony Stark.

It’s a reality he’s played over several times, but he still can’t wrap his head around it. But maybe this time it’ll stick.

 _Stark. Stark. Stark-Stark-Stark. Stark_...

“Hey, Karen?” Peter said, scratching an eyebrow. His earbuds clicked in and he continued, “What do you think?”

“What do I think of what, Peter?” his AI asked sweetly.

“Uh, about – about everything? How it went? The-the press conference?” Peter rolled his shoulders, tapping his hands idly on the chair.

It took her a moment to answer. “You spoke very well, Peter.”

Peter waited, thinking she was going to say something else, but then she doesn’t. He took in and let out a breath, slicking a hand through his hair. “You’re upset with me, huh?”

“Although I am more intelligent than your market average, Peter, I am still not completely capable of human emotion. I am merely responding to you in the same way you have been to me as of late.”

“That’s a long way of saying you’re pissed off,” Peter replied, giving a quick shake of the head. “I’m sorry I’ve neglected you, Karen. And the other... thing.”

She didn’t respond.

 _Actions speak louder than words_ , thought Peter, letting himself fall against the chair instead of getting up and leaving to the penthouse. It’s what he should do; Dr. Strange—Stephen (it just doesn’t sound right; that’s annoying) would be expecting him, and he’d promised Happy he’d hightail it up there, too.

It’s just taking him a while to get his thoughts in order, though. The conference had, in his uneducated opinion, gone really well—except for a few of those questions, but that was mainly because he’d found he couldn’t answer them. The sinking feeling in his gut hadn’t dispelled since Tony had made his hasty retreat, and Peter wasn’t sure why he was nervous.

(That wasn’t true; of course he knew why he was nervous. It was those damn questions he couldn’t answer.)

_“And were your Uncle and Aunt aware you weren’t a blood relation to either of them?”_

He’d slipped. He’d slipped so badly he was actually surprised Pepper hadn’t stepped in and immediately given a noncommittal answer – something professional and polished with a clear note to _back the Hell off_. But both she and Tony had stood back and let him answer. That, in Peter’s retrospective opinion, had been a bad idea.

Because who on this earth would ever think an appropriate response would be: _“There was a folder of paperwork my Aunt kept.”_ A folder he’d never read; a folder which Tony had hinted at the contents of, but never out-rightly confirmed—no less let Peter read; even when it had been on the kitchen table one morning, and Tony was flicking through it, making notes in a separate booklet to his right.

When he’d realised Peter was there, he shut them both and promptly started breakfast. Until now, this moment, as Peter relived the memory in vivid detail, he’d barely considered it noteworthy to remember anyway.

_“And why is it, if your Aunt and Uncle knew, they hadn’t contacted Mr. Stark for monetary compensation?”_

He was mangling up her sentences – that Debby woman – but the non-linear approach made more sense to him currently, as Peter ran the words around his head and wondered, patiently, whether...

_“Do you think Mr. Stark is purposefully keeping information away from you?”_

...

Peter wanted to say, not that it mattered right now, no—because why would Tony have a reason to keep any information away from Peter? Tony wanted them to communicate. He’d said it on multiple occasions even before this Hell-sanctioned week. What reason would he have to—

_“I’ve never been in the foster system, to the best of my knowledge.”_

Vague, unassuming memories pushed at Peter. Each time one moved closer to the surface, his head blanked and he was left fleetingly stunned, blinking, wondering exactly what that was. That little... Peter took in a deep breath and tried to call it up again, but it falters – he falters – and finds himself, once again, drawing a total blank. There was definitely something there—and his only hope of finding out what it was, was likely in that damned folder.

Currently being held in residence in Pepper Potts’s office—which was behind a door FRIDAY would never let him through unless in an emergency and even then she would naturally contact Tony either before or after. So, he’d have to ask for it.

Easier said than done, especially with how Tony had reacted to the question himself; how suddenly unsteady he’d looked. Peter had briefly noticed it, too focused on his role in the conference to really debate the shift at the time, but looking back now—he could see it. He could see the distraction in Tony at the reporter’s question.

_Why?_

Peter groaned into his folded hands and fell against the chair. Counting to ten, playing with the idea of stepping out the door wearing his media-worthy smile, Peter coaxed himself to his feet and left the conference room frowning.

When he arrived in the penthouse he found the voices concentrated in the kitchen. Although a part of him thought he should probably go in and see Rhodey, Bruce and- Strange, he also knew the task of keeping up a smile when he’d started to brood over thoughts unrelated to anything he’d thought on before was going to keep him from enjoying their company. Peter slinked past the doorway without a glance and walked in a slump down to his room, ignoring the disconcerting mixture of voices calling his name from the kitchen with odd fascination.

 _I’m just Peter_. Kicking his door shut, Peter walked straight by his made bed and towards the balcony, jostling the doorknob. When they didn’t immediately open, he turned his focus on the ceiling and asked, “FRIDAY – am I allowed out?”

“Boss has currently got your doors locked, Peter.”

“Can you open them?” Peter asked first, and then, “Wait, why? Why’s he locked them?”

“He is worried about your security, Peter,” FRIDAY replied, voice gentle and fond – mother-like, ready to handle all the ways the conversation could go. “There have been plenty of examples of the children of wealthy parents being kidnapped. I can play a documentary regarding the most famous, if you would like.”

Peter raised an eyebrow with unqualified disbelief. “Uh, no thanks, FRI. But, uh, listen, I’m also _Spider-Man_.” He forced a straight-lipped, tense smile.

“I do not see how that is relevant to Boss’ safety concerns, Peter.”

Sucking on his lips, Peter waited a moment before giving the doors another shove. “Can you ask him to open them, please, FRIDAY? I need some air.”

“Boss is currently unavailable due to the location block on CLASSIFIED.”

“FRIDAY,” said Peter, rolling his eyes. “I know about _Floor 13_.” When she didn’t reply, Peter turned to his desk and flicked through his papers, raising one hand to massage his tensed throat. Tony had never purposefully locked his doors, despite there being times when he probably should have – for Peter’s own safety. Even if they had been locked for whatever reason, one word to FRIDAY and she’d open them most times without even a verifying reply. The idea of being locked in... It didn’t sit right; especially after the press conference and Tony’s fast departure.

Being relatively smart, Peter could determine all of these strange happenings were likely at least semi-related—but could they also be related, directly, to him? Or was it more to do with cleaning up any stain on the company’s image? Or tackling Rosendale? Happy did mention she’d been taken to a room on Floor 13.

 _It’s just a safety concern_ , Peter told himself, glancing at the balcony again. He picked at an old comic book of Ned’s he still hadn’t read, swallowing down the smidge of guilt as he put it to one side to relax with later; it didn’t seem wholly right to kick back right now. Beneath it, he found several college brochures all tucked into a nice pile. He had to think of applying now, really, but...

Skimming his fingers over MIT and Penn, Peter’s eye caught on Empire State University. Just as Peter was about to pick it up, FRIDAY’s voice hummed down from the ceiling, “Peter, do you still want to go outside?”

“God yes, FRI,” Peter replied, swigging the last of his water. He shoved the brochures under an old test.

“Then might I suggest trying the balcony doors in Boss’ room? They are open.”

Confusion danced merrily through Peter’s head. “I have access to Tony and Pepper’s _bedroom?_ ”

FRIDAY replied softly, and with something almost like grief, “This is your home, Peter.”

Peter left his room immediately, striding to the next door down. He stood facing it a moment, listening to the voices down the hall chattering like – well, old friends. He caught Sam’s accent mixed among them and briefly wondered who else was there; probably not Steve and no Steve meant no Bucky—which should have been obvious because Sam was there. Placing his hand on the doorknob, staring down the hall, Peter turned it and opened the door.

He’d never been in Tony and Pepper’s bedroom.

It just... wasn’t a thing he’d considered himself either doing or being allowed to do. Tony was a man of privacy, and as such Peter had never thought FRIDAY would actively let him go anywhere near his—near Tony and Pepper’s space—no less encourage it.

The first thing he noticed was the bed. It was hard not to, despite his cheeks burning; unlike Peter’s it was unmade, but arranged in a way which could be referred to as ‘tidy chaos’ with the amount of pillows tucked around it. Deciding he’d probably stared too long, Peter manually moved his head in a different direction—the direction of the balcony doors. Peter ducked past an overbearing bookcase and walked across the wooden floor, minding the rug. “Are they open, FRI?”

“Yes, Peter.” At that, Peter jostled the handle and, with immediate relief, pushed it open to take in a long breath of fresh air. He stepped out, closing the door behind him, and leant over the side of the balcony. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, one leg bent in rest and one planted firmly on the solid floor below him, but it was long enough to clear his head before the door opened behind him. Turning in alarm, Peter opened his mouth to immediately apologise.

Tony got there first. “If I hear you say sorry, kid, you’re out of the Will.” He raised a calming hand, palm out, placating, but his smile was tense. “I know that face, Pete.”

“What face?” Peter asked, taking in another breath; despite how much he tried to lessen the pressure around them, he couldn’t. He had too many questions; too many thoughts were running around his brain trying to get some dominance, asking to be answered.

“That one.” Tony stepped closer, one hand in his pocket and the other fidgeting with his sunglasses, pushing them further up his nose. He stopped after a moment, taking the hand to Peter’s shoulder.

Peter looked at it; the nicks, the burns, the old and fading scars. He remembered the first time – in his old room, in May’s beaten apartment – sitting on his bed and then suddenly Tony was _there_ beside him, hand poised above his shoulder – hesitant – and then it slapped down and all Peter did was try hard not to flinch, clasping his hands together between his knees as Tony had casually asked if he’d ever been to Germany.

It had marked chapter one, really; the rest before it, the time learning his powers, had been the prologue. Getting them had been an off-page introduction to his mysterious life and was not something he tended to dwell on, despite it having consumed him at one point.  
This moment ranked in the same way to Peter; a chapter one, book two sorta deal. He was almost expecting Tony to lean forwards and ask him if he’d ever been to another European nation – maybe France, Poland, or Czechia, or Denmark—Denmark would be pretty cool, actually; maybe he could get a tour of the _Lego_ HQ in between fighting some aliens or saving the world.

“I think we need to talk,” said Tony, hooking a finger around the edge of his sunglasses to pull them off. He blinked a few times, clearing his vision, and then said, “First off, I should probably apologise for locking you in.”

“Wow, the great Tony Stark apologising,” Peter gruffled, as he attempted to smile through the stress picking at the threads of his confidence.

“Hey, I was taught ‘sorry’ and ‘please’, kid; just by the butler.” Tony squeezed his shoulder before dropping the hand away. “But seriously, Pete. I just didn’t want you going off Spider-Manning after a big press conference.” The tension continued to hang around them like a dead man’s rope.

It was no secret Peter hadn’t been out Spider-Manning in a while; he was too smart and too highly-strung to not see through the excuse. “FRIDAY said it was because you were worried about me being abducted,” Peter replied, leaning back against the railing behind him. If he didn’t look down, and with the low spring breeze, he could almost imagine they weren’t ridiculously high up.

(Spider-Man is scared of heights? Wow, that’s _lame_.)

“That’s true,” Tony replied, nodding at him. “Absolutely. Peter, trust me, there are people out there who’d kidnap you not because they want money – although, look at me, that’s a good incentive – but because they just want to _get to me_. They want to watch Iron Man squirm.” He shook his head and shut his eyes, obviously trying to banish the thought of it. “Last thing I want is for you to end up in the back of some sicko’s van.”

Peter watched the shadow cross Tony’s face, his eyes darker than usual; thinking, piecing things together. Peter knew what a working head looked like, and to him it seemed as if Tony’s was practically in overdrive. “O-K. But I just wanted some air.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry, Pete – I was on Floor 13 and FRI’s access there is limited to video and voice recording. Only her emergency protocols work down there, otherwise.”

“She said, yeah.”

“Great jumping jimmies, you two like a natter, don’t you?” Tony faked exhaustion, and then tidied his expression into one of docile fondness. “Anyway. Enough of that—” Tony clapped his hands together. “I want us to have a conversation.”

Peter looked up. His mouth formed around the word. “Conversation,” he said. “I’d like that, Tony.”

“No one else this time, just us,” Tony verified, eyeing the New York City skyline in the daylight.

Peter turned his head to look at it, too. The skyline was usually the property of the night time, the night life, when everything was lit up and the world came to play across the streets in colours some people never even knew existed. Peter was guilty of that, of pushing his curtains aside and watching as everything lit up. Back in Queens, half in his room and half out the window, he’d watched the barrios come alive and listened as they filled with voices and music. After the bit, as Spider-Man, he’d gotten around them, too, gotten everywhere and checked out all the street parties—watched them from afar and above.

It was beautiful, watching backstreet dancing and hearing the ebb and flow of music from all directions, until the electric cuts out of course and leaves the entire block in the dark. He’d seen it happen once or twice, maybe thrice. He hated it. It spoiled the unsubtle beauty of New York.

New York during the day was different. It hustled and bustled with tourists and traders, moved at a pace unlike anywhere else. There was something special about it.

Peter checked his privileges with a shake of the head and turned back to Tony. “Sure. Le-let’s talk.” A beat of silence followed his words. “About what?”

“About a lot of things,” Tony replied, scratching his hair. “A lot of things we should have already talked about.” Curling his right hand over his left wrist, Tony stepped up beside Peter and turned his head down to look at the streets below them. “First, I’m sorry about – all of today. You deserved that field trip, Pete, with all the... everything you’ve been through.”

“No, I get it,” said Peter, roughly pushing his hair back when his mixture of curls continued to bounce forwards. “I get why it had to end like it did. I mean—after everything came out, and Rosendale—and-and the actual field trip? It’s not like I had a chance, Tony. Plus, I’m pretty sure I was just making everyone else’s time a misery because all anyone in the labs could focus on was me.” He dropped his head, but kept his eyes on Tony’s face. “I’m not allowed a normal field trip. It’s a curse.”

Tony hummed, and then gave a shrug. “I don’t know about that, Peter. Field trips – overrated, in my opinion... But there are plenty of places you can tour which aren’t, you know, your home. I’m sure Rogers could loan you his cap and sunglasses disguise”

Peter couldn’t stop the small smile as it pressed into his features, nor the laugh at the suggestion. “You think so, Tony? I’ll ask him, I guess... Where do you think I could tour, then?”

“I hear MIT is a pretty good place to tour,” Tony replied, humourless, tilting his head sideways. When they stared down each other a moment too long (figuratively; neither of them were looking at each other), Tony relented and began, “I know you don’t want to talk about it, Pete, but college – I want you to go to college. Give you some normalcy after everything you’ve had to go through; a chance to put the ol’ super-suit to one side and focus on your future.”

“And who says Spider-Man isn’t my future?” Peter asked, propping his head up and eyeing Tony with hard-fought sincerity. He wrung his hands for something to fidget with, picking at the edge of his nail. “Isn’t that what a hero is? You were telling me like three hours ago that a hero is someone who sees something and says ‘no one else is gonna something about that so I guess I’ll have to’, right?”

Tony raised his eyes from the roads beneath them. “I’d like to think I put it better than that, but I suppose if you can remember the general message then I did my job right.” Sitting into his hips, Tony finally turned to Peter and said, “You wanna help the little guy, Pete. That’s what you’ve always told me—you wanna be among the people, got that... _Springsteen_ -y vibe. I dig it, as I said.” Tony opened his arms and gave a fierce nod. “Thing is, Pete, not everyone’s idea of a hero is a guy in spandex.”

Peter slid his teeth into the ridges of his lip and didn’t look at Tony, despite the older man’s sudden and eager attempts to catch his eye.

“I know you understand me, kid.” Tony leant back into the corner of the balcony, resting there. “You’ve got a great brain, an _outstanding_ moral compass—I mean, God, I’ve seen those tapes of that kid, uh, Eugene. If I were you, I’d have been expelled by now for kicking his ass so much.”

Peter chuckled at that, feeling the shift in the air as Tony stepped closer to him—raised an arm around his shoulder, dragged him into an awkward side-hug. “I push because I wanna see you achieve more than just a kill-count, Pete. Helping the little guy – you can do that in so many more ways than by just taking out a bike thief, you know? You understand, don’t you?”

“I do,” Peter replied, nodding, turning his head to look at him. “Let me... consider it.”

“Sure. Anyway.” Tony dropped his arm and turned to face Peter head on. “You fumbled during the conference.”

“Oh, uh, I-I did. I-”

“That’s my fault,” Tony interrupted before Peter could get any further into his head, turning his head away to frown at the floor.

Peter blinked at him. “Not everything is your fault, Tony.”

Tony lifted his hands. “When the world tells you what you are...” He clicked his tongue and slicked his hair back with one hand. From looking down, Tony pushed himself away from the railing and towards the doors, gesturing for Peter to follow him. “Can you remember, when we talked earlier at the cafeteria, what I said I wanted from our relationship, Pete? Communication. You know what I haven’t given you? Communication.”

“Tony?” Peter called, but Tony was already slipping back into his bedroom. Peter hesitated, and then followed him; they made straight for the door, Peter passing a glance at a random few stuffed toys sitting on a shelf, and then were suddenly on their way back to Peter’s room.

Tony stepped to one side and waited with his hands in his pockets. He motioned at the door. “Sorry to interrupt your privacy, kid, but you did technically nullify mine, so...”

Peter raised a confused eyebrow and, jostling the doorknob, opened the door to his room. Unlike his old room at the Compound had been, this room had never been modified for him; instead, during the remodel, it had just been remade entirely to suit his needs. He’d still not had a chance to see his new room at the Compound yet, which was both a thrilling and terrifying prospect, but he knew he’d grow to love it just as much as he’d loved his old one, and his room in the Tower.  
Even back when it had been nothing more than a guest bedroom Peter used to crash in after particularly hard lab sessions (after the Blip, of course; he’d never been in the Tower labs before then), it had always felt like _his_ —especially after Tony, at the time neither of them(?) having any clue as to Peter’s parentage, had one morning chucked a tablet on the breakfast table with a clothes retailer on the screen and told him to order however much he liked. All the clothes had been placed in the room when they arrived, so Peter could easier stay nights in the Tower if necessary.

At the time, it had felt incredibly familial – especially as Tony had also gifted him with a StarkPad the very same day, to make school work easier.

But that’s not important right now, no: What’s on his bed is important. Peter stepped carefully into his bedroom and stared, gaping, at the heavy folder sitting against his pillow. May’s clumsy handwriting was sprawled across the front in sharpie: **Peter’s Folder**.

Honestly, Peter wasn’t sure how he’d forgotten about it for so long. Maybe it was because May kept it in her bedroom, above the dresser, and almost never brought it down except for when anything to do with Peter was involved: bloods, birth certificate, medical notes (pre-bite). He’d never gotten a look in, never thought he wanted to—never before today, that is, when everything about him had been called into question.

_“Do you think Mr. Stark is purposefully keeping information away from you?”_

Peter shook the voice of the reporter away and turned to Tony, standing stoically in the doorway. After a minute, and a laugh from down the hall, he quickly stepped inside and shut the door with his shoe. “FRIDAY, girl, make sure we aren’t bothered, all right?”

“Yes, Boss.”

Peter turned his attention to the folder again, eyeing it. Before he had a chance to speak, Tony came up beside him and started walking Peter along with a firm arm around his shoulder blades, hand in the juncture of his neck and shoulder. “We’ve never talked about how this happened, have we?” Tony asked, a pointless question just to say something into the strain surrounding them. “How we got to this point, I mean... Well, kiddo, I’m about to break a promise.”

“A promise?” Peter asked, pressed into Tony’s side as they came to his bed. “To...?”

“May,” Tony immediately replied, loosening his hold. He leant across the bed, resting one knee on the sheets and took the folder in hand, dragging it back across. Taking a seat on the bedspread, Tony patted the spot beside him and said, “Take a seat ‘ere, young buck. We got some ground to cover.”

Peter blinked a few times, the confusion mounting in him. Carefully, he took the offered seat beside Tony. “What promise?”

Tony shrugged his arm around Peter, pulling him closer into his side. “She came to see me – about her Will, and to give me this-” He patted the folder in his lap. “She asked me not to show you until you were old enough – which, by May’s standards, I’m guessing was never.”

Struggling through a torn laugh, Peter said, “Probably.”

“Thing is, Pete, if I do that—then this communication thing isn’t going to work. What happened at the press conference today can’t happen again; it’s not fair on you.” Tony laid a hand on the folder, spreading his fingers. “But you’ve gotta know something before we open this thing, Pete: Nothing is going to change.”

“What do you mean?” Peter asked, alarm flaring through him; he was going cold at the fingertips, staring between Tony and the folder. “Tony? Wha-what do you-?”

“Well, jeez, that-that was not worded well—what I mean is, you’re still exactly who you are—who you’ve always been.” Tony pressed his lips into a line, quelling the bouncing of his leg before it barely started. “Today, in the kitchen, when you were asking if you’d still be Peter Parker... Look, I decided then – there wasn’t any time – but I decided then you should know exactly who you are.”

Peter’s stomach dropped out. “... And that means... what? Am I-” He caught himself, swallowing; he had to make the word come. “Am I... I’m your son – I’m your _biological son_ , right?” Peter blinked at him, a tear stinging the corner of his eye.

“Oh, yeah, of course you are.” Tony squeezed Peter’s shoulder, patted his arm. “I can’t fake a DNA test, kid—and before you ask, yes, I definitely never knew about you. If I had, I’d have fought for custody.” Tony moved to open the folder to the front page; an index detailing Peter’s early life.

Peter couldn’t look at it yet, not before he managed a tentative mutter of, “Custody...?” He turned his eyes down, and his breath caught on seeing the words: _Parker-Reilly Custody Hearing_. They were blatant, written in Ben’s more careful handwriting, and Peter wasn’t entirely sure he could breathe. “What... What does that mean?”

Tony’s arm around him tightened. “Take a few breaths, bambino,” he shushed. Tony only continued once Peter had calmed down, his shallow breaths turning deep and long. “OK. So, limited legal knowledge – usually have people for that – but the thing is neither Ben nor May had any biological relation to you, bud.”

“So... they adopted me?” Peter asked, furrowing his brow.

Tony expertly slid his hand into the folder, knowing exactly where to go. “Not quite. Your mom never legally appointed them as guardians – so you became the responsibility – a ward – of the Court, and they had to fight for custody for months—years, actually.” He took out a bundle of letters and set them, carefully, into Peter’s hands. “Because of Mary and Richard’s job, Ben Parker wrote several letters to his brother asking to be appointed guardians. I gather they knew you weren’t safe, Pete; but they never got around to the paperwork.”

“... Their job? I wasn’t... safe?” Peter turned the letters in his hand. Some printed; some handwritten; others typed on an old-fashion typewriter, it seemed. “What do you mean?”

“You... never knew what your mom did?” It was Tony’s turn to be so suddenly confused, eyeing the letters with ratified horror. “Yeah. OK. No. I-I’m not getting into that – that’s not important right now. I mean it is, but it’s another conversation.” Tony held out his hand for the bundle and, though not sure, Peter handed them back. Tony slipped them back into the file. “Anyway. Ben and May fought for custody of you and, eventually, got guardianship.”

Peter nodded slowly, watching as Tony turned through the custody hearing pages. He paused at the end of them. “You were in foster care for about two years, as far as my sources can get me,” said Tony, a bereaved expression painting his features. “I wasn’t in the system back then – when they checked your bloods. Four months. Just four damn months.”

It became clear to Peter very suddenly what Tony’s biting remarks meant. “You mean-”

“I put my bloods in four months after Ben and May won guardianship, and your record was pretty much stripped—CPS was – is – criminally underfunded, so keeping a kid’s details in the system – at least on a database of bloods – wasn’t really a priority back then. Mostly, it was paperwork and that’s not so easy to match.” Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know the worst thing, Pete? I had this woman claiming I was her kid’s dad around the same time. When it was disproven, I put my blood-work in with all the major players so I wouldn’t have to deal with it again, and I paid out thousands of dollars to keep it there for years. If I’d just done that before...”

“It’s OK,” said Peter quickly and beneath his breath, eyeing what little paperwork he could see beneath Tony’s splayed hand. “So, I was in the foster system, then.” He dragged his mouth into a faint smile. “Guess that’s my first lie to the media sorted.”

Tony turned the page back to the index and skimmed his fingers over it. “OK. Next big one – we aren’t going in order, by the way; I don’t think your ‘school awards’ are of interest for this conversation.” Tony’s hand drifted down the page, and then he turned it to the next one – where the index continued, except—

There was just one thing there. Peter stared at it, blinking, and then read aloud: “Peter’s father Anthony Edward question mark, question mark.” He looked at Tony, his finger following the next row of scribbled text. “Tony Stark question mark... question mark.”

Nodding, Tony said, “Your mom told May two weeks before she and Richard died – that you weren’t Richard’s kid.” Tony dragged the folder into his lap and turned the pages, skimming past various photos and details Peter struggled to see in real time until Tony got to where he wanted and carefully straightened out the attached notepaper. It hadn’t even been pouched; just stuck inside by the ringlets. “So, yeah, they knew, kid.”

Peter heard him, but was too busy reading his mom’s pernickety handwriting to form a response. It wasn’t a long letter by any means; a few paragraphs penned in haste – almost like she needed to say it quick or else she wouldn’t say it at all. Addressed kindly to May, it confirmed Peter was not Richard Parker’s son—but Anthony Edward’s son.

Holding his breath, Peter read the last line – a little mangled, but still perfectly legible: _I do not regret our time together and the good which came from it_. The good, Peter soundly realised, being _him_. “She never actually called you Stark, though...”

“Our circles ran close, if you’re wondering,” said Tony, voice just above a whisper; his arm was still hanging around Peter’s shoulder, and every so often he squeezed Peter closer to him, held him tighter. “I’m sure you know Edward’s my middle name, Pete—and Anthony is my first name.” Blowing out a breath, he said, “It doesn’t take a lot to make the connection, but I think it took until she – May – met me to fully make the realisation. It’s probably why she didn’t much like me; she thought I was coming to take you away and throw you into my scene—the same scene which...” Tony looked up, wetting his lips. “Not important. But do you see where I’m going, Pete?”

“Yeah, I-I do,” said Peter, running a hand over his eyes like a child sleepless from staying up late to watch the adult cartoons on mute with delayed subtitles. “May was... she was always cagey about you.”

“Perfectly right to be.” Tony shrugged. “She and Ben fought hard to keep you— and they— she only had guardianship, Pete. May had every right to be worried I was there to take you away. I had biological proof you were my son – the courts are weird about that stuff, especially when you take into account _money_.” Tony brought them back to the index a last time, if the exhaustion was anything to go by. “That day she came to see me – just before she died – she wanted my help to transfer her guardianship rights of you to me.” He rubbed the back of his neck with his spare hand, the other drumming Peter’s arm. “From there, with the blood test, I could legally adopt you far easier and quicker if—well, when the worst happened.”

The world on Peter’s shoulders shattered and he slumped forwards a little, eyeing the index – the various scrawled notes in the margins of the paper. “She... knew?” Out of the corner of his eye, Peter saw Tony give a single solid nod. “She knew she was going to die, and she never told me? Bu-but... I—and why—why Italy?”

“I did some digging on that, actually.” Tony set the file to one side and turned his head to Peter, idly pressing a quick kiss to his temple before he continued, “May Parker – May Reilly – was adopted.”

Peter stared at him, dumbfounded. “What?”

“Her birth name was May Fellini, and she was born in Brooklyn, given up for adoption aged eleven. She was adopted two years later after being fostered by Mr. And Mrs. Reilly—and she took their surname.” Tony laid out the facts in perfect order, one hand clasping the bottom of his thrown-on jacket. “She loved New York, kid, but she just wanted to go home.” His worked fingers rubbed circles into Peter’s shoulder, holding him steady.

“... I understand,” said Peter, cleanly avoiding the sink of emotion in his voice; but he must not have done a good job, if Tony’s furrowed brow was anything to go by. “I... I want to understand, anyway... I’m... I’m processing...”

There’s a quiet Peter can’t quite explain; something heavy, unspoken, unsaid—he could practically see it in Tony, in his eyes and the gears of his head. There was _more_. “What is it?” Peter asked, sitting up straighter.

Tony turned his head away. “I— Pete. I don’t—I don’t want you to get overwhelmed. Maybe this is enough for now.”

“You said we’d have communication,” said Peter, his eyes flicking across his room, taking in everything he knew as at least somewhat true; somewhat right. There wasn’t much in his life which was completely solid, especially since the Snap, but everything in his bedroom—Spider-Man included, and Tony beside him—he wanted to still believe that was entirely true.

For that, he needed to know everything about himself—everything which had been kept from him. He turned in Tony’s slack grip and said, “Please, Tony.” _Please, Dad_. It was on the tip of his tongue, burning against the back of his throat. Peter couldn’t stop the tears brimming his eyes, catching on his lashes, as Tony wordlessly dragged his hand down the index, paused at the bottom of the first page, and then turned to the back of the folder. He set an arm atop the last few pocketed pages.

Looking up from where his stare had set on the carpet, Tony said, “I’m sorry. I can’t – I can’t do it again.” With a deep breath, he removed his arm and pressed the folder into Peter’s lap.

Peter stared at the typed front, all in bold: **IMPORTANT DOCUMENTS**.

His lip twitched, and he turned the page. In front of him was his birth certificate—which, come to think of it, he’d never seen before? Peter stared at it, picking out the details of himself for the first time—the real him. The actual document of who he was. Proof.

The issue is there were two.

Peter stared at them, blinking rapidly. It clicked. “I have an amended birth certificate?” He pulled the folder closer to him, flicking his eyes from one to the other. They were almost identical. _Almost_. The difference was simple, and something he’d agonised over for the past week: His name.

The newer of the two documents – likely the most legal – proclaimed he was _Peter Benjamin Parker_.

The older read, in more stylised lettering: _Peter Anthony Fitzpatrick_.

Peter clamped his mouth shut and swallowed, staring at the two versions of himself. There was one other thing – a small thing – which hadn’t changed from either document. Where his father should have been listed, there was no name. None. Nothing. He was, legally, fatherless.

And yet. Peter raised his eyes from the birth certificates to look at Tony. “Why are you sorry?” he asked, finding his voice. In the rough silence, he could hear Tony’s heartbeat – irregular, fast – and Peter instinctively reached out to curl his fingers in Tony’s jacket, gripping it—grounding them both in their constant reality.

“Pete, all this time – all you’ve wanted to know is _what your name is_ ,” said Tony, taking his arm away and picking Peter’s fingers from his jacket. “There’s your truth, kid. It’s a whole lot of everything.” Patting his thighs a couple of times, Tony stood up from the bed. He dramatically checked his watch. “Oh, Lordy – think it’s time for my coffee. Keep the folder, kid; it’s yours, after all.”

Peter held the file in both hands, watching as Tony made his way to the door. Before he could open it to leave, finding his Spider-Man courage, Peter spoke up, “Your name.” He watched Tony falter, hesitate. “My name is your name,” Peter classified, leaning on to his fist. Tony had paused, his hand on the doorknob, his head turned slightly. Peter took his chance and said, “Anthony. Mom named me _after you_... and they – Ben and May – they took that away... Aren’t you upset? Aren’t you-”

“They gave you a better name, kid,” Tony interrupted, dropping his hand from the door. “Peter Parker. Alliteration at its best.”

“Better?” Peter responded, pursing his lips. Putting the folder to one side, Peter stood up from the bed and stalked across the bedroom to stand directly behind Tony, balling his hands into fists at his sides. “I wasn’t related to them at all—they had no right to change my name! Aren’t you even a little _upset_ they took the one thing I had of you since I was little?”

“Kid, they did that to protect you – to give you a family identity. They didn’t- they were trying to make you fit in.” Tony circled on the spot to face Peter, his eyes slightly red. He took his sunglasses from his pocket, flicking them open. “It made sense to them. As far as anyone knew, you were _Richard_ ’s son-” Peter didn’t miss the way Tony practically spat the name, “-so for you to be a _Parker_ was natural—and to have the brother’s name as your middle name? Normal, kid.”

“But...” The whirlwind of anger spinning around Peter spun itself out, and all he found in its place was the lonely remains of something hurt and sad. “They never even—no one told me. And they—No one ever told me I’ve never really been a –Parker.”

Tony wiped his eyes, clenching and unclenching his fingers around the frame of the glasses. “D’you remember, Pete, what you said to me – on the roof? What was it?”

A chill ran down Peter’s spine. “That I... I, I just wanted to be like you.”

“And I wanted you to be better,” Tony responded immediately, with a nod and a look to the side. “And better is-”

“Better is whatever I want it to be,” Peter butted in, taking another few steps forward to stare directly into Tony’s face—his sunglasses weren’t yet on; he wasn’t hiding. Peter could see everything in his eyes; the hurt, the loss, the dismissed pain. “Better is whatever I choose to be.” Peter reached forwards, opened his arms, and somehow managed to bridge the gap he’d left between them with an awkward hug. On hearing Tony’s surprised snort, Peter stepped in closer, tightening his grip. “And I choose you, Tony.”

All was silent in the room for a moment as Peter shoved his face into Tony’s shoulder and inhaled the familiar smell, letting it dull his high-wire senses. He flinched when Tony’s hands dug into his back, fingers curling in his shirt, tipping his head to say directly into Peter’s ear, “Did you really just make a damn _Pokémon_ reference.”

Peter’s throat bubbled with laughter. “Accidentally?” he replied, the question edging into his tone. As Tony started to pull away, Peter held on tighter. “I mean it. I want- I...” He swallowed, hiding his smile in Tony’s shirt. “Third time’s the charm, right?” He made a nonsense gesture at the birth certificates.

Tony gave one last squeeze. “Kid.” Detangling himself from Peter, Tony opened his jacket to the side and removed a small envelope from an inside pocket. “You never let me have my dramatic exit, so here.” He held it by the corner towards Peter, fixing his stare on his own hand.

“What is it?” Peter asked, wiping his eyes of anything. “Wha-”

“It’s from May, kid. She sat there and wrote it while we were updating her Will.” Tony waggled the envelope enticingly, his other hand going back to fiddling with the frame of his sunglasses. “She wanted me to give it to you when the time is right—seems pretty right, all things considered, so... Take it, Spiderling.”

Peter carefully pulled the letter from Tony’s hand, realising then he was shaking. “Can I... read it now?”

“Of course, kid. D’you want some privacy?”

“Yea—yeah. Yeah. That would be- that would be nice, Tony.” Peter lifted his eyes, but all he saw reflected was himself in the blacked out glasses. Tony nodded and took his leave for a coffee. Once the door was shut, Peter scrambled to open the letter – the last connection to Aunt May, the last thing she’d written in her words—something she had to tell him, but couldn’t to his face. As he pulled the paper from the envelope, Peter couldn’t stop the tearful snort at seeing May had written it on official _STARK INDUSTRIES_ notepaper. Her way of defiance, there was no doubt about that; she’s stolen a sheet of SI’s official writing paper to pen her last letter to Peter.

He should have sat down before he read it, before his eyes touched on the first line— _To my dear Peter_. It shouldn’t have hit him like that – she’d been dead for months. He’d processed his grief—he’d been angry, sad, bargaining. He’d managed to reach some fragile idea of acceptance, and yet the simmer of upset was just beneath the surface; the quaint and tempered resentment he’d held towards her since her sudden and cruel death.

Peter took in a few breaths, turning and backing up to press against the door to his room. He unfolded the letter in full and started to read:

> To my dear Peter,
> 
> There are a lot of things you’ve never been told – about all of us: Mary, Richard, Ben and me. There’s even more none of us – for any reason – can tell you. I hope your folder will answer some of them, as I assume with this letter Tony has also given that to you as well ~~despite me telling him not to~~.  
>  Baby, I’m sorry. I know you’ll be feeling upset and betrayed. I know you probably hate me, even just a little, and you have every right to—I’m not going to try and change your mind. I haven’t been honest with you, sweetie, and I’d like to think everything would have been different but I’m a selfish creature. I’ve left it to Tony to tell you the cornerstone of my story, and why my place is in Italy.
> 
> I’m not going to try and tell you everything about who you are, because that’s for you to figure out on your own, but I’m sitting across from Tony Stark as his lawyers go over right of inheritance and baby it’s incredibly. It’s like looking at you, how he thinks and speaks his way through everything; how enamoured he is with working everything out before everyone else. I didn’t know he was your dad, officially, until I saw the paperwork, but it made every sense even before it.  
>  If you haven’t already, I want you to look at your birth certificates before you read on. Tony’s just seen them, and I wish I could be there to see if your reactions would be the same. He was angry, and sad, and then he wavered between unsure and upset for how we’d tried to take away the part of him in you, despite him having never known about you until now. It was, as I wrote, selfish—but I think you’ll understand as he has we did it to protect you, to keep you safe and to give you as normal an upbringing as we could. The truth is bittersweet, baby: you’re not a Parker, biologically, but we brought you up with all the morals Ben and Rich had. Your Parker identity, if you want it, is yours.
> 
> But you’re a Stark. You might not see it yet, but everything in Tony I see in you—there are some things I hope, some morals, you’ll keep and won’t hold against Ben and I. We truly did what we thought was best when we applied to change your name, to fit you into our family and give you that stability. We should have sat down and spoken about this, talked to you about it. If you will take one thing from this letter, please let it be that family comes in all shapes and all forms, blood and water; you are and will always be our nephew, Peter.  
>  You know I was never a fan of Stark ever since the Expo, but now I’m beginning to realise his good sides are yours, honey, and they’re amazing. I know he’ll take care of you—that you’ll take care of each other. He’s already making so many plans for you, for keeping you safe. He’s such a dad already. I hate to say it, but I trust him – I trust him with you. And isn’t that what people say? You can never trust a Stark? I’ve trusted one all along, baby: I’ve trusted YOU.
> 
> I don’t know who you’ll be, and I definitely don’t know what you want to be, but I do know you’ll be questioning everything – you always did – and you’ll be trying to work out what’s best for everyone else before what’s best for you. So, baby, I’m going to tell you what’s best and hope you still respect my opinion enough to run with it.
> 
> Keep the Parker in you as we did; safe and protected, but be a Stark: Embrace it, change it, make it your own and remember you have a responsibility to all of your power, Spider-Man. The past is meant to be remembered, not lived.
> 
> I larb you very much, sweetie. I hope this gives you some closure. Aunt May.

By the end of the letter, Peter had slid down his door and on to his floor, tears choking his throat and falling fast from his eyes. With shaking hands, he dropped the letter and put his palms over his eyes, trying desperately to halt the wetness gathered there from his reading but to no avail. Peter took in slower, calmer breaths, calling back to Tony’s voice telling him to relax, to shush, to dry his eyes—and it helped, resting there against his door, letting one leg slip out as he slung his arms around the other knee and propped his chin there.

 _Aunt May_..., thought Peter, looking down to the letter and the envelope. Carefully, he reached out and dragged them across to him, turning his neck down so he could stare at her clumsy handwriting with all its pauses and blots of ink. All the anger from twenty minutes ago, while it hadn’t vanished, had deceased and suddenly the empty well he’d had inside of him, the pit, was filling with everything he’d experienced – in a _day_. Just one damned day.

What the Hell.

Taking in a gasping breath, Peter slapped his hands down beside him and stood up. He made his legs stop shaking and picked up the letter and the envelope to stride purposefully across to his bed and the folder. Peter slid them into the pocket of his second birth certificate and stared at the original one.

 _The past is meant to be remembered, not lived_.

 _Better is what I choose to be_. Peter took in a breath, shutting the folder. _And I choose you, Tony_. Picking up the file, Peter walked over to his bookcase and made room on a shelf, sliding it in sideways. It looked right, there, as a collection of his past and the blueprint of his present. What he’d be for the future was in his own hands. It was always a choice—his choice.

Peter dried his tears one last time and spun around to face his closed door. He stepped around the tidy mess of his room and turned the doorknob into the hallway, greeted by the sounds of his- of his family in the kitchen. Steadfast, Peter walked towards the voices—it was missing one, or two, maybe three—but it was most of them, and it would do for the moment. As soon as he rounded the corner and stood in the entrance, his tear trails having barely dried, most of the conversation died off instantly and the mismatch of humans and not-quite-so-humans looked up in the pulses of silence.

Raking his eyes through them, Peter found Tony – who was already getting up, setting his coffee on the table, walking towards him with one hand out, meant to be in a pacifying, calming motion, and his mouth, Peter mused, was already forming around the words of, “ _You’re OK_.”

Thing is, Peter isn’t. But that _is_ OK.

Without another warning, Peter threw himself straight into Tony’s arms, planting his feet when they stumbled to the cautious amusement of the kitchen. “Whoa, Spiderling –you’ll take my back out at this rate, kid,” Tony said, a hint of laughter in his voice, but otherwise it was tinged in a measure of sadness and something approaching dismissed, as if he was expecting Peter to stop this thing they had going, this back-and-forth of possibility, this debacle of past v. present. When Peter didn’t speak for a while, lost in the presence of his father, Tony cleared his throat and asked, “What did the letter say, Pete?”

“It basically told me to stop being a wimp, in May’s words,” Peter replied, taking his head from Tony’s shoulder to speak to him proper-like. “And, you know, to trust I know who I am.”

“And do you?” Tony asked immediately, ruffling a hand through Peter’s hair.

“Yeah,” Peter replied immediately. “Yeah, I-I do...”

Tony hummed. “And are you going to share with the class, or...?” He trailed off, despite the question hitching his tone, and then added, “Maybe not the best analogy I could use today.” Pulling back from their hug, Tony slung his arm around Peter’s shoulder and led them out of the kitchen. The living room, although not too distant, gave them a moment of casual privacy which was probably some of the best you could hope for in the Tower on a weekend like this.

Peter took in a deep breath as Tony sat them together on the couch, still holding him. Peter shrugged away and moved back from him, needing the space to say it – say what he needed to say. He opened his mouth. “Peter,” Peter said first, slow and controlled. The next came out a little rushed, almost nostalgic, “Anthony.” He looked up then, into Tony’s widening eyes. “Benjamin.” Peter swallowed around the name; a part of himself, of his morals, of who he’d been and continue on with.

The surname did not sit heavy on his tongue like it had done in the past, but now struck with an apt bite. “Stark.”

“What?” Tony sputtered. “Pete, what are you saying?”

“My name,” Peter replied, nodding. “Peter Anthony Benjamin Stark. That’s what I want. I want to change it – now. I want to be a Stark, I want-” Peter clamped his mouth shut at seeing Tony’s gaping, wide-eyed stare. “I want you as my dad. Officially. I want to amend my birth certificate one more time.”

It happened very slowly, the great Tony Stark rendered speechless, as he lifted his head, closed his mouth and stood up. He walked the two steps to Peter and dropped onto the couch again, pulling him into his arms for the quietest hug, and yet the loudest, Peter had ever had. He pushed a hand, trapped between them, on to Tony’s shirt – where the nano housing unit was humming in sync to Tony’s heart.

This universe was his, Peter knew, as wetness – tears and kisses – pressed into his hair. And that was definitely enough universes for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Bonus**
>
>> Julius waited patiently outside the bus, giving a ‘thumbs up’ to the driver who was going between looking at his watch and slapping the wheel in time to the music blasting from the radio. “He’ll be here in just a moment; got called up to speak to Mr. Stark himself,” Julius called, nodding at the kids who gave him uneasy looks from the windows.
>> 
>> A second later, Roger stepped out from SI and walked slowly, almost clumsily through the throngs of reporters that real tall security man – Happy – had said they must not talk to—or they’d face the full legal force of SI. Julius was not keen for that. “Roger!” he called, waving him over with the clipboard, one name – one Peter Parker – crossed out. “So, you pals with Tony Stark now, huh?”
>> 
>> “Uh...” Roger pushed up his glasses. “Actually, Julius... Yes. He, uh, he offered me a job.”
>> 
>> Julius stared at him, his mouth falling open slowly. “What?”
>> 
>> “Dr. Stark asked me to come work for him,” Roger repeated, eyeing the landscape of reporters around them. “I... I’m going to hand my notice in on Monday – with immediate effect, according to the NEA.” Roger adjusted his tie. “He – Doctor Stark – he told me to take a few weeks holiday, get my head back into the books...”
>> 
>> “Wow,” said Julius, turning his eyes up to the Tower. “So, you’re leavin’ the school?”
>> 
>> “Yes. My replacement will be in on Tuesday.”
>> 
>> Throwing an arm around his shoulders, Julius pulled him near and said, “What a day this has been, my friend, what a day.”
> 
> I hope this chapter was OK; it took me a while to get right, trying to stick that balance between Peter as a Parker and Peter as a Stark--I hope I was successful and you enjoyed it. Stay safe all ! -J 


	13. Technicolour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > A day can change a person; shape them for the very rest of their lives, set them straight on their path and put them in the eyes of the world. All takes is an achievement, or a mistake, or, more than likely, a combination of the two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _*Tosses chapter at you* Ruff!_
> 
> Well. Here it is guys – the last chapter of _Open For All !_ Wow. There were definitely points I wavered through this, so thank you guys for sticking with me and following this story for over 90k words ! Absolutely fantastic. Give yourselves a round of applause – I’m not an easy writer to read ;)
> 
> Just wanna take a moment to thank all you guys for your comments, kudos, love and help through this entire thing – I hope you’ll continue reading into the next, but first a massive thank you to [InformalFallacy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InformalFallacy/pseuds/InformalFallacy) for making and keeping up a brilliant TVTropes page for Open For All (linked below, as always). Just thank you. I never thought anyone would take such an interest in my story as to write up an entire page for it. As always, I’m speechless from your kindness and the awesome with which you’ve continued to update it. Thank you <3.  
> And for all my regular readers and commenters – I love seeing you pop up in my inbox and knowing you guys have enjoyed this enough to take the time to have conversations with me and say such lovely things—Ah, God, I’m crying. I love you all.
> 
> And, of course, I promised you guys a sequel – a continuation of this AU – and it was posted up just before this one was ! So, if you want, you can finish this and then [CLICK HERE!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24008431/chapters/57757765) to take you to the first chapter of _The World Was Wide Enough_ !  
> In case you haven’t noticed, I love running myself ragged. -J
> 
> The awesome [InformalFallacy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InformalFallacy/pseuds/InformalFallacy) has very politely made a TVTropes page for Open For All ! [Click Here!](https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Fanfic/OpenForAll) to go to it :)

###### 

**WELCOME TO THE FAMILY! HAVE A BUSINESS EMPIRE**  
_Peter Parker, 17, is the son of Tony Stark poised to continue his legacy_.

Yesterday, large swathes of the world tuned in to watch the press conference of the decade as we were introduced to Peter Parker [Stark], 17, the fabled son of Tony Stark and one of his infamous girlfriends, Mary Parker (nee Fitzpatrick).  
Earlier in the day, the Education Secretary Maria Rosendale held a private engagement with the press to announce she’d met Tony’s son [Peter]. Ms. Rosendale disregarded an NDA she had previously signed and agreed to, arguing it was in the public’s interest and right to know. She did not reveal Peter’s name. Pepper Potts, Stark Industries’ current CEO and wife to company owner Tony Stark, confirmed the rumours and announced SI would be taking the DoE and the OFA [Open For All] Imitative to court on the grounds of identity exposure of a minor as well as disregarding an NDA.  
Later, Mr. Stark and Mr. Parker (who is currently seeking a name change, as we understand it) held a press conference to ‘introduce’ Peter. Both father and son confirmed they are taking legal action against Ms. Rosendale personally as well. Peter spoke at length and took questions from journalists—we have attached the edited video to the end of the article.

It was also revealed Peter would inherit Stark Industries.

###### 

A lot can happen in a day: A war can be declared. A country can be written out of its existence. A pandemic can begin. A whole civilisation can be brought to its knees.

A day can also change a person; shape them for the very rest of their lives, set them straight on their path and put them in the eyes of the world. All takes is an achievement, or a mistake, or, more than likely, a combination of the two.

Peter understood this as his truth of the moment. Around him, the world was talking and yet he never felt so voiceless.

Saturday was not usually a news day in basic terms, but every channel Peter turned to was alive with debate about him and the press conference. He’d woken up at five AM, drenched in sweat from night terrors, and immediately gotten up to grab a coffee all while FRIDAY murmured about his distress from above him. He shut out her concern, blinking sleep away from his eyes, and got himself ready in as much quiet as he could.

He lost himself under the shower until, obviously, FRIDAY saw more than just casual need for her concern and gave him a rather rude blast of cold water. “FRI!” Peter winced, turning off the tap to wrap himself in the fluffiest towel he could grab from the shower. While, for personal privacy reasons, FRIDAY didn’t have cameras in the bathrooms, she did have sensors to monitor the room for security and safety purposes.

Dressing in lounge wear for the day, Peter got himself that previously-mentioned coffee and settled on the sofa to look through one of Tony’s MIT textbooks he’d taken from the bookcase in the corner; it was quite a hefty volume, newly-published, and Tony had suggested it a week or so ago for the author’s entertaining turn of phrase. From the corner of his eye, making his heart skip a beat, he saw Harley’s bag against the wall—but, on closer inspection, it was just his clothes pack; the one he’d left behind. “Is Harley back, FRI?” Peter asked hopefully, but FRIDAY gave no response. “Thought not.” He shoved the book on to the table, losing his appetite for early-morning physics.

All of which brought him to the present of being cuddled up, with his arms hugging a cushion, on the loveseat across from the TV. Peter clicked the remote between the news channels, (he didn’t want to bother FRIDAY) but the only other news item they were running with was something about the markets—which, actually, had to do with Peter anyway. Sales in SI stocks were the highest they’d been in a long time—double over what they’d been at the infamous Stark Expo Peter himself had gone to as a kid.

God. What would that kid have thought now? Had he known _this_ was going to be his life? As Peter slumped into the couch he idly mused on it, on how he would have taken the news back then—would he have wanted to leave Ben and May? Would Tony have gone for custody? He said he would have, but...

Peter rubbed his eyes. Although he’d often thought on the infamous Stark Expo in the last few months as a hilarious moment – him, Tony’s actual kid, thinking he could blast a hammer drone, and then Tony coming out of nowhere to save him—his _dad_. His _dad had saved him_. And neither of them had known about it, then—no less considered the possibility.

What was more, just two weeks before, Uncle Ben had taken lil’ Peter to the gates of Hammer Industries (because they were just down the road) and he’d _seen Justin Hammer bustling from his limo_ , throwing a hand at the gates and waving at lil’ Peter. He’d been practically vibrating the rest of the week – knowing already he was going to Stark Expo, too – at having seen one of the Big Guys in tech.

“Hey, FRI?” Peter coughed, listening intently; the gentle hum of machinery was only just waking up several floors beneath him, signalling the beginnings of the weekend shifters. Coffee machines automatically began brewing at five AM. “What, uh, what happened to Justin Hammer?”

FRIDAY changed the television set to a screen detailing the convicted businessman; his stock photo, smiling and waving, was vastly uncomfortable. “Justin Hammer was behind the drone attack at the Stark-”

“Yeah, I know all that.” Peter waved her off. “I mean – is he still in jail? What happened to Hammer Industries?”

Turning to a different information page, keeping the same staged photo, FRIDAY explained, “Justin Hammer was released five months ago from Seagate Penitentiary. His sister and nephew, Jill and Jacob Hammer, are currently owner and CEO of HI respectively.”

Peter sat up, planting his socked feet on the floor. “He’s out? And Hammer Tech is still – are they still government contractors?” He could have sworn the company was dragged through the press so thoroughly all its assets had simply been sold off and the company collapsed in on itself. “Does Tony know about this, FRI?”

“He does, Peter. Boss has me keep tabs on most of his enemies,” FRIDAY replied, a certain note of joy in her accent. “According to her social media, Justine Hammer is actually starting at Midtown Tech in the Fall Semester. She is the daughter of Justin Hammer and his ex-wife.” She paused briefly, and then went on, “I don’t currently have any permitted information for what contracts Hammer Industries has.”

“... Huh.” Peter leant across to the table to pick up his coffee, pushing aside the MIT manual. “Who else does Tony have you keep tabs on, FRI?”

Just as FRIDAY started to list a series of names and companies (“Advanced Idea Mechanics, Roxxon Energy Corporation, Pym Technologies, The Life Foundation, Norman Osborn and...”), the sound of a door shutting clicked against Peter’s ear and he swung around to look at the hallway. “FRIDAY – uh - _MSNBC_ ,” Peter bit out quick, and the screen shifted to the news immediately. Surprise-surprise, it was another angle on Peter’s press conference.

Tony walked in moments later and Peter turned back to the TV, trying hard to keep a straight face – despite having not done anything wrong(?) – while listening to the soft and unhurried irregular beat of Tony’s heart. “Mute,” Tony said simply, the sound natural, as he stepped up behind the couch and instantly brought a hand to Peter’s hair; giving it a tousle. “Hey, Pete. D’you sleep well?”

“Oh, hi – uh, hi, Tony. Yeah, I, I slept OK,” Peter replied, hugging the life out of the cushion. “Wha-what are you doing up already?” He turned his face up, configuring a sort of smile.

Tony’s blasé expression immediately changed to one of suspicion. “What did you do?”

“What did I- I’m offended.” Peter smoothed his mouth into a real smile, raising a hand to set over his heart. “Did you sleep OK?” he asked, changing the subject and chucking the squished cushion away. Flicking his head to one side, Peter dragged a hand through his hair to correct the parting and then stood up, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth when he saw Tony’s eyes were still slightly narrowed, looking between Peter and the muted television.

“I slept... all right,” Tony replied as he focused in on Peter, apparently shrugging off the odd interaction after a small shake of the head. “Five hours is pretty good for me. Are you OK after our chat last night?”

Peter gave a brazen nod and stood from the couch, picking up his coffee as Tony went to retrieve one for himself. “Yes. I-I’m glad we talked...” Peter circled his finger around the rim of the cup, stepping into the blatant light of the kitchen with a purposeful blink. As Tony muddled with the machine (which consistently and constantly thought itself as being broken), Peter watched and revisited their conversation from yesterday – not in full, obviously; he’d been a part of it, after all, but a few moments stood out to him: Tony’s anger at the birth certificates, for one thing, but —as May said in her letter—he understood why they did it and he had no right to be upset.  
He was happy – really happy – Peter wanted to include ‘Anthony’ in his name again and, though he was slow to admit it, Peter’s choice to remove –Parker from his surname ( _to keep it safe_ ) and to take on the –Stark name obviously made Tony stand a little taller, smile a little smugger. Peter tried not to see it, made slightly uncomfortable for reasons unknown.

One of the other things they’d discussed was the Harley issue. Peter had, very tentatively, asked Tony about him last night—about finding him:

Tony: “I just can’t get a lock on his phone, kiddo. The problem is it’s an older model he modified himself, changing key parts of the data to make it pretty incognito to the system. I had to manually install a tracking chip in, and I promised to only use it for emergencies. And now I can’t get a read on it – at all – so he’s probably removed and smashed it.”  
Peter: “You can’t backdoor the phone itself? I mean, Ned managed to do that to Happy...”  
Tony: “I fixed that flaw, thank you. And no, I can’t. I mean, I’ve tried.”  
Peter: “So, there’s no other way? All we can do is wait?”  
Tony: “... Well... The only other way... It’s invasive; I don’t want to resort to it, if I don’t have to. I’m sure he’s just blowing off steam somewhere. He’ll probably stumble back in the early morning.”

Well, he hadn’t. Although there wasn’t any tension yet he knew there soon would be – especially from Steve and Bucky; they’d practically taken Harley under their wing—as Peter had noticed directly in Harley’s varying behaviours. Peter had no doubt the Avengers would start talking, start wondering why Tony wasn’t doing anything—it wouldn’t matter there wasn’t – seemingly – anything Tony could do because that wasn’t how they wanted him to work. They wanted him to have all the answers—wanted him to solve the problems before anyone saw them—wanted him to have all the facts of the situation before the situation _became_ a situation.

It pissed Peter off.

The Avengers had a way of making even the biggest rooms feel cramped. No matter the facade, Peter knew the truth: they weren’t a family – and if they were, Tony wasn’t a whole part of it; not anymore. There was more than just tension, undetectable to some, perhaps, but there was an undercurrent of constant fidgetiness, pressure on a bloated wound. Not everybody could look at everybody else, but in a room of murderers and thieves...

Peter stretched his neck as the coffee machine bubbled and got upset, his eyes slipping closed when Tony let out a muttered curse and gave it his standard talking to – but it wasn’t working today, it seemed. Peter let out a chuckle.

“Pete, get over here and make it work.”

“I didn’t use it this morning,” Peter replied, nodding across the kitchen at the kettle. “I made instant.”

Tony wrinkled his nose and thumped the base of his palm against the coffee machine again. It sputtered a last time and the blue light died. “Fine,” Tony huffed. He reached behind the machine and pulled the plug from the wall socket, chucking it on the counter. Grabbing his mug, Tony turned to Peter and started walking towards him, gesturing at the doorway. “C’mon, kid; let’s see if Capsicle is cooking breakfast.”

“What about Pepper?” Peter asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I told her to have a lie-in; told her her boys will fix their own breakfasts.”

 _... Her boys_. Peter couldn’t stop his face his splitting into an awkward smile – thankfully not in view of Tony. That was the other thing Peter learnt about last night: An interlude to Peter and Tony’s constant conversation last night happened when Pepper approached and handed them dessert – after one of their classic, but unexpected family dinners of just the three of them – and then given Tony a just-so smile before announcing her news.

Peter couldn’t be more excited at the prospect of being a big brother, especially when Pepper ruffled his hair and told him she was _so proud of him_. He wanted to say she was already a great mom, and maybe she sensed it – he hoped so – because he couldn’t say it, not really – not yet, maybe not ever.

When Pepper went to bed, Peter and Tony continued their conversation well into the night – clocked a few hours in the lab, even – before turning in. The last section of their night-chat had been more sobering – probably better to have had it at the beginning, really – when they’d settled on the uncomfortable stools at one of the worktables and had a _feelings_ chat. Ten minutes of one, at that—which was definitely enough in their present, and had practically drained the stuffing out of them.

The important thing was Peter asked for help, and Tony didn’t just listen with one ear. He nodded, he understood – he didn’t try to find excuses or to impose his thoughts on the matter. No, he simply gave Peter a comforting smile, set a hand on his shoulder (after asking gently if he could) and said they’d do something about it. Peter, sheepishly, asked whether Tony would think about it, too; about seeking some help after everything that had happened. He said he’d consider it, maybe look at his schedule.

That’s progress.

Peter snapped out of his reverie when he felt Tony’s arm slip around his shoulder and pull him into a side-hug. “You OK, Pete? You keep zoning out.”

“Ye-yeah – I’m fine. Just—there’s just a lot of thoughts running around in this squishy, pessimistic brain of mine.” Peter let out a slight laugh and then felt himself tugged closer, the phantom press of a kiss into his curls. “My coffee’s gone cold, dad.” His heart skipped, still in the testing stages of using _that word_ ; still trialling it, proof of concept and all that.

The silence – after Peter uttering the word – between them was not strained or awkward, but it wasn’t comfortable either; it was still new.

Tony’s hand squeezed his shoulder, smiling widely at Peter. “And mine’s nonexistent. Let’s go grab us some coffee, kid.”

+

The conversations over breakfast were both light and pricked with tension. Some comments went over gracefully and others fell like a lead balloon. There were some things which definitely weren’t being openly discussed, too—like Harley. Peter felt almost lost in the active chatter around him, his stare focused across at Bucky and Steve, both of whom were staring pensively at Tony who, like yesterday, kept periodically checking and tapping his watch before casting a depressed look at his gluten-free waffles.

Seemingly, Harley had disappeared. The major problem, and the probable reason for the apprehension, was 24 hours hadn’t passed yet—but Peter could see Bucky was nervously picking at his food instead of eating, and Steve kept sending Tony imploring looks. Although Peter shared the concern, there just wasn’t much they could do yet. Without any large amount of time passing, the police were unlikely to get involved—but, then again, they likely wouldn’t want to if they knew Harley had ties to Stark Industries and, confidentially, the Avengers. After all, if the Avengers couldn’t find one of their own, what hope in Hell did the NYPD have?

Tony gave Peter a sort of look before they sat down – seconds before having been accosted by a straight-lipped, brow-furrowed Bucky – and nudged his arm across in such a way to show Peter Harley’s tracker was still offline. Peter didn’t need to be told not to say anything; the general build-up of tension was enough. He was doubtless it would spill over soon, but maybe it was best left to stew for a few more hours until they could take more serious action.

“Good morning all,” said Clint, stepping in late. He caught a yawn in his sleeve, slumping into the nearest chair. “Stark. Mini Stark. Didn’t expect to see you guys down here with us.”

Peter sputtered into his cereal, jerking back from his dropped position at the table to stare directly at the archer. He opened his mouth, closed it, set a fist against it and coughed to clear the dryness from his throat—it didn’t help (it did) when Tony patted his back a few times, and Peter took in some deep breaths as a blush splashed across his cheeks.

Amusement coloured Clint’s gentle eyes, and he raised his palms in surrender. “Sorry, Spider-Man. I couldn’t resist. The news channels are all over you—they’ve got more nicknames for you than Stark has.” He nodded at Tony, keeping his tone polite and terse; to the point. “I know it’s a sore topic. Sorry.”

“No-no, it’s, uh, it’s all right,” Peter replied, massaging his throat. He returned to his food as the table collected itself again, resuming their bouts of conversation as Peter downed the last of his soggy cereal. Standing to grab himself another bowl Peter cast Clint, who was safely into a natter with Sam, a faint glance over his shoulder.

Despite resolving his initial identity crisis with the –Stark surname (and the rest of his name) last night, Peter hadn’t mentioned it to anyone else—not even Ned, who he’d thrown some nonsense text to last night before falling into his uneasy slumber. So far, all he’d done was to discuss the implications of his name with Tony and Pepper—it would be dramatic, they’d collectively decided, but after the chaos of the press conference they’d set on waiting a couple weeks at least to make everything more gradual and give the journalists time to adapt instead of making Peter an all-at-once phenomenon.

Letting out a relieved breath, Peter settled back at the table. In the time he’d taken to compose himself and get another bowl, someone had turned the television on. The quiet bickering of a Saturday drama flicked onto the news a second later and Peter glanced across to where Sam had the remote, taking a few seconds too long to figure out how to turn the volume up. Tony cleared his throat and got there first: “FRI. Turn the volume up to 67%.”

Peter raised his eyes to the TV to see himself standing behind the podium talking to reporters from the press conference. The TV jumped in volume just as a female-voiced newsreader said over the video, “... And so it was confirmed Peter would inherit Stark Industries. What do we think are the implications of this, Fred?”

A male newsreader suddenly appeared on screen; beside him, presumably, was the female newsreader. “I think we’re going to see Stark Industries taken in a newer, younger direction once this Peter comes into his own, Kate. The weekend newspapers are all over this – let’s have a look at a few of these.”

Peter set down his spoon, his cereal soaking, and watched as clipped headlines began appearing on the screen. Fred, the newsreader, narrated, “ _The Washington Post_ is going with _Stark and Son: A New Direction_ , whereas _The New York Times_ is asking _How Much Did Tony Really Know About Peter?_ – they are also running with the rumours that Secretary Rosendale has been suspended from the Republican Party.”

“A lot of the papers are going with that as the main headline this morning, Fred—but we must remember they _are_ just rumours, still. Anyway, _The New Yorker_ is giving us a lot to think about with their breakdown of the conference, as well as an opinion piece on why Peter will outshine Tony _very_ quickly!”

“He’s adorable,” came the weather presenter’s voice and the camera flipped over to see her, hand to her heart. “And so human. I hope we’ll see more of him, and he won’t just fade into the background.”

Clint whistled, catching Peter’s attention. The archer had a hand to his ear, adjusting his Stark-branded hearing aids. “Hear that, kid?” he asked, a slapstick grin plastered over his mug. “You’ve got an admirer.”

“Of course he does,” Natasha drawled, having finished her breakfast and was now downing her third cup of coffee. “He’s _adorable_.” No one was about to question if her tone was sincere or mocking, but Peter couldn’t help the slightly embarrassed smile tugging at his lips.

On the TV, Fred was still narrating the headlines. “Of course, our friends at _PBS_ are asking whether Tony has done exactly what was best for Peter— _Good Morning America_ will be discussing that on Monday, but I believe the online census is currently _yes_. Approval ratings for the DoE has fallen to its lowest overnight – and from our limited sources we’ve been told they’ve received over _two thousand_ complaints since yesterday—especially in concerns to Ms. Rosendale’s OFA Initiative.”

“You’re trending, you know,” said Wanda to Peter. Sam nodded and hummed in agreement as he smashed a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. “A lot of people want to have sex with you.”

Peter choked on his spit and Tony let out a high chortle. Kate continued speaking on the TV: “ _The Financial Times_ is calling it a _New Era for Stark Industries_. Quite a few tabloids this morning going for things like _The ‘Dad’ Moment we Never Got_ , too.”

“I rather like the _Keeping His Eyes on Dad_ line from the _Globe_ ,” said the usual commentator for entertainment news. “Do we have the picture, Fred? It’s a great picture.”

“It is. And we do, actually – let’s have a look at that.” The screen switched to a picture of Tony on the podium with Peter standing nearby, looking up at him with a faint smile. “I think the kids these days call that a ‘pure moment’.”

Kate started speaking again, ignoring Fred’s attempts to be current: “As expected, this has gone very international. We’ve got _De Welt_ here and translated it’s actually Peter’s words of _Just Call Me Pete_. I believe that’s become a _meme_ , actually. The UK’s leading tabloids – _The Daily Mail_ and _The Sun_ – are going with _Stark’s Son: We Aren’t There Yet_ and _Welcome to the Family! Have a Business Empire_ respectively.”

“That first one – the _we aren’t there yet_ comment, which is directly from Peter himself – is referring to Peter’s unwillingness to currently call Tony ‘Dad’. I think there’s going to be some child psychologist talking about that on _Good Morning America_ – on Monday,” said Fred, shuffling through his papers. “Lotsa stuff happenin’ Monday. Anyway, we’ll be bringing you updates and interviews on the situation as it continues to develop.”

Kate took over: “After a quick update on the other news stories with Jameson, we’ll be hearing why Tony’s ‘Pete’ endearment – and how casually he said it – matters a lot more than we’re giving it credit—from a top _child psychologist_.” She gave Fred a look, her eyebrow raised, a note of _idiot_ in her expression for him before she turned back to the camera with a huge, fake smile and said, “over to you, Jameson.”

+

And so it continued.

The entirety of Saturday was spent, for Peter at least, in the lab, tweaking bits and pieces he’d not gotten around to for a while. He casually watered Tony’s tomato plant experiment – which still hadn’t produced any tomatoes – added the packet of feed, returning to his work only to get the unmistakeable smell of tomato lodged in his nose for the rest of the day. Dammit.

Tony appeared every-so-often and did a little bit, but Pepper had him running errands most of the day so he was in and out – checking up on Peter, ruffling his hair, and then leaving without a word, his concentration immediately turning to his phone. Peter watched him go each time before resuming his work.

Later, when the clock was just striking 6pm, Peter decided he should finish up the last of his Spanish homework so he could take Sunday as a rest day. Although a part of him wanted to go down and check on who was going to win the swear-jar this week, Peter thought better of it and went back up to the penthouse instead.

He finished his homework between watching bouts of _YouTube_ in the peace and quiet of the living area, staying keenly away from anything too focused on the media and the news of the moment, but some snuck through and Peter did a poor job of skipping opinion and reaction videos of his conference, wincing when one well-known personality called him ‘overly dramatic’ in sarcastic imitation of Peter’s own voice.  
Even Flash had put a video out, and it was currently his most-viewed with the clickbait title of **PETER STARK goes to MY SCHOOL?!** Peter decidedly skipped that one. Betty Brant had done something similar, and he skipped hers, too.

As the world outside darkened and dinner time inched closer, Peter asked FRIDAY where Tony and Pepper were. The AI responded gently, “Ms. Potts is preparing for a business call with Beijing. Boss is downstairs.”

Peter raised an eyebrow, checking his watch. “At eight o’clock at night?” he asked in relation to Pepper, and then it dawned on him, “Oh – right. Timezone differences. Got it. What’s Tony doing downstairs?”

“Boss is currently in a meeting with Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Bruce Banner, and James Rhodes.” FRIDAY paused, and then added, “They are discussing Harley Keener.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Boss has said you should order dinner, Peter. What would you like?”

Giving a shrug, Peter clasped his hands together and opened his mouth to reply, but stopped to get his thoughts in order. “Uhm. That Italian place – the one... dad... likes, please, FRI – just my normal order, OK?”

He got up to grab a glass of water from the kitchen, taking to sitting alone at the table. “Done, Peter,” said FRIDAY a few minutes after he’d given his request. With that sorted out and on its way, Peter grabbed the communal StarkPad and took out his notebook and pen. He flipped it open, took in a deep breath at the lists of colleges and unis, and got to work.

###### 

**FIRST SIGHTING OF PETER PARKER SINCE PRESS CONFERENCE**

Peter Parker [Stark], 17, was spotted today in a coffee shop known to be well-frequented by SI employees. Apart from going to school – where press have been barred for the security of the students – Peter has not been seen in public once since his press conference, which recently hit 348 million views on _YouTube_.  
Until, that is, today, when an observant member of the public saw him drinking coffee with a young woman who is presumed to be his girlfriend. Could this be one of the many young women whose hearts will be undoubtedly broken by the young Stark? Or has he not inherited his father’s playboy tactics?

Stark Industries were not available for comment.

###### 

God, that damn article. Every one of his texts with MJ since its publication had ended with an added ‘I’m sorry’; he’d not even considered the implications of how going for a coffee with her would look when he’d invited her out on a ‘quick date’. She didn’t seem to mind though, instead choosing to laugh about it—that might have been worse in all honestly, considering the blush Peter couldn’t keep from brightening his cheeks during their video call. Apparently he’d managed to inspire three whole pages of crisis sketches, which made MJ incredibly happy.  
He had to be doing something right, then.

+

The paperwork for his name change appeared on his desk the day after, fresh from the legal department, and delivered bright and early by Tony. Peter was half-awake when he came in; understanding the movement in his room posed no threat to his life and taking to listening to the soft humming coming nearer. He shielded his eyes with the corner of the duvet when Tony quietly asked FRIDAY to open the curtains. “C’mon, Spider-Kid – time’s wasting, clock’s ticking.” He sat on the bed, reaching towards Peter.

“Nu-huh?” Peter yawned, batting away Tony’s hand. “Nah – dad – ‘nother hour. Big—big test yes’day.” He lifted the duvet to cover his mouth, yawning.

Tony’s warm palm settled on Peter’s forehead, fingers stretching into his hair. “And you’ve got another today, right, kid? Couple more.”

“Summer,” Peter murmured in response, finally lifting his head from the comfort of his pillow. “T’Compound.” He blinked a few times, eyebrows rising as he dragged his eyes open—damn, he was dogged. He shouldn’t have stayed up chatting with Ned last night—but he was coming back today; the idea sent a pulse of excitement through Peter and he shook the sleep from his consciousness.

“Yep. Off to the Compound soon, kid,” Tony replied, but there was the slightest – tiniest – hint of something unbidden in his voice, something sad. He stood abruptly from the bed, smoothing out his tee-shirt, and drew in a breath. “Yep. Compound.”

Peter sat up, balling his fists to press against his eyes. “’Arley?” he asked through a yawn, brushing the wetness of sleep off his eyelashes.

Tony sighed. “No.” He fluffed Peter’s hair, but it fell flat. Gripping Peter around the shoulders, he set a kiss on his forehead. “Breakfast’s in ten, Pete; grab a shower and meet in the kitchen.”

The tension was back, and it was still not spilling over; it hadn’t yet, not once. Peter’s skin prickled uncomfortably, his hair standing on end, as he took his shower and towelled his hair dry for school, getting dressed. He cast a glance at his webshooters, sitting on the desk beside the paperwork, and shook his head. “Soon,” Peter muttered, patting them. Grabbing up the paperwork, Peter strolled along the hallway to breakfast.

Surprise lit in him as he stepped in through the open archway. “Hey, Dr. Strange.”

“Peter. Hello,” Dr. Strange greeted kindly, his smile stretched. His fingers shook across the table, more unsettled than usual, and he added, “I’m told by Tony you’re about to submit your paperwork for changing your name. Good for you.”

“Yeah – one last time,” Peter replied, placing it carefully on the table. A pen solidified beside him, whisked up in a burst of orange particles, and Peter shot the wizard a huffed smirk. He picked it up, uncapped it, looked at the various sections with bated breath. Thankfully, Pepper had already filled in the majority of the required information with her cleanest handwriting, and all Peter had to do was write his new name in block capitals and sign it.

Drawing in a breath, as Tony placed a plate of waffles beside him and gave his towel-dried hair a ruffle, Peter set pen to paper. He held it towards Tony when it was done, smile fragile but real, and then finally tucked into breakfast.

What he didn’t see, almost too casual even for Tony’s notice, was Dr. Strange’s imploring look in the older Stark’s direction for their abandoned conversation—

+

“Tony-”

“Nope. Not hearing it – not caring about it, Strange. This ‘first step’ or whatever you called it – that’s what it is for Peter—it’s his life. I don’t care what you think you saw.”

“Tony, please, jus-”

“Did I stutter, huh? No. Isn’t it—isn’t it enough _I’m not even looking_? Isn’t it enough I’m _ignoring the problem_? Do you know what I go through every fucking time I see Steve?”

“Tony—We can’t stop this! Not anymore, not after—Agh, we’re prolonging what has to hap-”

“Yeah. We are. Because – you know what? – I got it. I got my ending. I’m happy. I don’t need—I don’t have _to do anything_. Not again—not anymore.”

“This is not the en-”

“Shut up. This is _my ending_ , Stephen. No one’s gonna take that away from me. Not you, not Steve – goddammit not even Harley! _No one_. I don’t care what you saw—I’m _done_.”

+

The last hour of the last day of the last time Peter would step into Midtown Tech as a student approached. He’d gotten his results, he’d applied for Empire State University as his first choice (after much deliberating and discussion) and – very importantly – he’d been accepted after one interview. The future, all things considered, looked bright.

He met with Ned in the hallway as students rushed about saying goodbye for the summer, promising meet-ups they’d never have and talking hurriedly about graduation and whether they were going. Peter wasn’t – mainly because of the press build-up there’d be if Tony was there, but just as much because they were scheduled to leave for the Compound that day. He wouldn’t be having Senior Week, not that he minded, and prom had been earlier in the month – before everything happened – due to a scheduling error.

So this was, in reality, his very last day. He’d cleaned out his locker into a duffel bag – old chips packets and all – and decided he needed a last walk around the hallways with his best friend. Ned was buzzing, having taken all his tests remotely, and was looking forward to graduation with his most knowing of smiles. As they passed the teacher portraits, Peter paused to see Mr. Harrington’s picture and name had finally been taken down and replaced.

“So, where’s Mr. Harrington now?” Ned asked.

“Tony gave him a two-week all-expenses paid holiday in Europe – apparently that was meant to be the senior trip this year, but after the Blip and then OFA...” Peter shrugged. “He took Mr. Dell with him, I think.”

“Whoa. Love to hear their conversations.” They walked on. “So, are you still calling ya dad ‘Tony’?” Ned asked, peering through the window into the darkened chess club. Someone had lined all the bishops up on one of the tables.

“I interchange them,” Peter replied, sliding his eyes back to the hallway. “Sometimes I say Tony, sometimes I say Dad—the press always want me to say Dad in front of them. I haven’t slipped up – yet.”

“The weather presenter at the _Bugle_ was fawning over you again this morning – did you see?” Ned asked. At Peter’s shake of the head, his friend continued, “Your name going public yesterday had her practically drooling over the newspapers. I’d never seen her sit down before... it was weird – d’you know what I mean? When you see someone in a place they aren’t meant to be? Like, a weather presenter should be standing up—she was wearing these _bright yellow sneakers_ , too. Was weird.”

Peter drew his mouth into a small smile. It twitched once and faded, and he lowered his stare to the floor. “D’you think I did the right thing, Ned? Taking out –Parker?”

Ned considered it for a moment, twisting his face into as thoughtful an expression as he got, and then gave a solid nod. “Yeah, I think so, Peter. It, like, gives you and the rest of SI more of a united front – do you know what I mean? That’s what my mom said, anyway. I just think it’s cool I’m best friends with a Stark, and that Stark is Peter, who has been my best friend sinc-”

“OK, Ned, I get it.” Peter laughed, patting his friend’s shoulder as he got red in the face with silted embarrassment. “By the way, Tony says you and MJ are totally coming to the Compound during summer—as long as you don’t mind _Led Zeppelin_ waking you up every morning because apparently the guest rooms are over one of the labs now.”

Ned stared at him in squealing disbelief. “I get to sleep over the _lab_ -”

+

The last day dawned and Peter was out of bed quicker than FRIDAY could announce her good mornings. He’d tidied and packed everything he wanted to take with him over the last few days, so all he had to do today was – well – something he’d been meaning to do for a long time.

Most of the team had already gone up to the Compound and the Avengers’ Hallways had been shut down earlier in the week. Besides Tony, Pepper and Peter, Steve was the last of them still roaming about the Tower, staying behind for some unbeknownst reason (Peter could think of one, though), and he’d been camping out in the guest bedroom at the end of the hallway in the penthouse so Tony wouldn’t have to keep the electric on for one person.

Although there had been some discomfort from the decision, Tony hadn’t backtracked. He’d been almost too kind to Steve lately, partaking in pleasant and polite chat, and Steve had been the same—but that changed today as it would, as the universe was like that, because finally, _finally_ the underlying tension boiled over.

Peter walked straight in on them arguing in the kitchen.

“—And the fact remains, Rogers, I _can’t do anything_!”

“Bullshit, Stark!” Steve barked, slamming his coffee mug on to the table – unsettling the cutlery and, surprise-surprise, Dr. Strange, who’d taken to having his mornings in the Tower lately. He looked more than just distort today, though, his whole expression resembling that of a storm caught between two warring giants, both ready to grab and use its power to get ahead without consideration of the storm’s feelings.

Peter realised, rather lamely, he’d inherited his dad’s inability to tell good analogies. Great.

“You want to do something, Rogers? You want to find him? Go and find him, then!”

“Are you telling me, Stark, for all your information gathering – all your tech – you can’t find _one missing kid_?”

Tony turned away from prepping breakfast, his eyes dark and brimmed with explosive emotion. He opened his mouth to reply, obviously getting ready to continue their progressive shouting match, when he clocked Peter standing in the doorway and immediately clamped his mouth shut. “Pete,” he gasped, eyebrows up. “Kid. How long’ve you been there?”

Steve turned his head and his face softened out, his scowl dampening into a frown. “Peter,” he greeted, removing his fingers from pressing into the wood of the table. They’d made small dents, but nothing which would end up being noticeable. “Yes. How much did you hear?”

“Uh, not much,” Peter replied as Tony turned off the cocker and started trying to push a very unhealthy-looking breakfast from the pan onto the plate—jeez, that’s a lot of grease. Peter swallowed his anxiety and braved asking, “You’re talking about Harley, right?”

“Yes, Peter, we are,” said Steve, grabbing the bran cereal from Dr. Strange. “Your father still hasn’t found him.”

 _Father. That’s... uncomfortably said_. Peter glanced at Tony, at his wrecked expression, and then to Dr. Strange who, in disregard for the conversation which had just taken place, opened his mouth to speak, “FRIDAY, can you put the TV on, please? Dispel this awkward atmosphere – there’s a dear.”

“Certainly, Dr. Strange.” A second later, the television screen sparked to life – straight on to a news channel.

As Peter used this opportunity to grab his bowl and a chair at the table, Tony flicked his hand in the air a few times and FRIDAY, knowing her Boss well, turned the volume up just a little. The report on screen was reconfirming Maria Rosendale’s suspension from the Republican Party, with a live-feed outside her rather large, imposing house. “Did you know she’s an actual psychopath?” Tony asked no one in particular, changing the subject as he settled into his chair. “Took me a while to dig that out of her medical files.”

“And only because I helped you access them,” said Strange, sitting up straight in his chair. “I’ll be expecting repayment, Stark.”

Tony raised his cup. “Kinky wizard, aren’t you,” he muttered before draining whatever was left of his coffee and starting on his breakfast. He threw Peter a look. “And what are you up to today, bambino? Last day in New York until Fall – officially. We do have a charity fundraiser in a few months to come back for.”

“Uh,” began Peter, raising his eyes from his bowl; the cereal, without milk, sat unappetisingly stale but he didn’t want to interrupt the arrangement of the kitchen. “I was gonna... read a bit, do a bit of science and... I’m going out.”

“On the town?” Tony asked, humour infiltrating his lush accent. He chuckled. “Spider-Manning, huh?”

“Yeah,” Peter replied, looking from Tony to Steve, who’d gone unusually quiet, using his spoon to stab the bran in his bowl. “Wha-what about you guys?”

Steve unclenched his hold on the spoon. “I’m doing one last run of the city, to see if Harley’s down at the docks or something.” He sat back in his chair, raising his eyes to the ceiling. “We can’t give up hope.”

“He’s not in the city,” Tony replied brazenly, eyes dark as he looked at the captain. “I’ve got people looking for him, Rogers—people in low places. Whoever’s got him-”

“Got him?” Peter squeaked. “Wha—You mean... Harley was kidnapped?”

“It’s a possibility,” Strange interrupted Tony’s beginnings of a reply, voice harried. “Although there hasn’t been a ransom demand, so it is possible he’s just... gone off somewhere, decided to hit the road and loo-”

Steve barked out a terse laugh. “On his last year of MIT? I doubt it, Strange. Tony-”

“It’s a possibility,” Tony agreed with Strange, nodding at the wizard almost too eagerly. He lifted his hands, palms facing to himself, and then dropped them to continue his breakfast. “We have to consider all the possibilities before we go out there like lunatics, Rogers.”

A ragged silence fell across the kitchen, and then Steve said, “I... think we’ve exhausted all the possibilities, Stark.” Standing from his chair, pushing away his unfinished bowl of cereal, he said, “I’m going out.” He grabbed his jacket off the chair, passing Peter a quiet, hindered glance before he left the kitchen.

“Idiot,” Tony said beneath his breath, stabbing his breakfast. “Doesn’t he think I’ve _tried_?”

“He’s just worried, Tony,” Peter said, defending the mild-mannered captain. He shot Dr. Strange a calm look, wondering his opinion, but the Master of the Mystic Arts was keeping his cards firmly to his chest on the matter; a blink here, a blink there, nothing committal, everything in dismissive consideration.

Tony sighed, rubbing his face. “He has that right, Pete. I don’t.”

“You’re not worried?”

“Of course I am. But – I can’t do what he does; run into it, try to push against everything and find my own way—I have to follow the script,” said Tony, eyeing Strange as he said it. “Harley’s Harley. He’s strong. He’ll be fine.”

Peter wished he could say he believed him.

+

The end of the day drew close. Dr. Strange bid his farewell, said he’d be at the fundraiser in a few months, would try to pop up to the Compound if the rest of the world didn’t need him. Tony and Peter were there to wish him good luck at the Sanctum, as a portal sputtered into life behind him. Tony shook his head, drew the tall man near and said, “I’ll draw up some schematics, OK? Maybe work out a prototype.”

“Thank you, Tony.” Dr. Strange gave Peter a rapid nod and then stepped backwards through the portal and into the New York Sanctum—and before the portal closed, Peter heard Dr. Strange exclaim, “Wong!”

Tony and Peter stood in comfortable silence for a tick, waiting for the other to break it, until Tony obviously had enough and turned to him, grasping his left wrist in a tight hold as he asked, “And what are you up to for the rest of the evening, Spiderling?”

“Uh, well...” Peter pushed his mouth into a side frown. “I’ve been thinking... Last night in New York... Perfect for a bit of – venturing out, going places, seeing the bright lights a last time from close up.” He raised a considered eyebrow, staring from Tony across to the windows facing New York City as the sun started to set against the daylight’s decaying backdrop.

“I thought you might be considering something like that,” said Tony, nodding. “I’ve got a few things to tidy up in the lab, so that’s my evening, Pete. If nothing bites out there – and I don’t mean _bites you_ personally – then come back and we’ll make a night of it in the lab, yeah? Put on some shit movies and blow something up.”

Peter shifted uncomfortably. “I think I’ve had enough of things blowing up for a while...” He cleared his throat and added, very quietly, “Dad.”

“Yes?” Tony replied immediately, turning around from where he’d already started to walk away. “What is it, bambino?”

“I was just... wondering...” Peter balled his hands into fists, and then let them uncurl slowly. “What have you and Dr. Strange been so talkative about lately? He seems really – really nervous. Like, I haven’t since him this nervous since Titan.”

“Oh.” Tony whistled. “It’s... a few things, Pete. Nothing too serious.” He kicked his heel. “I’m designing him an AI.”

“An AI?” Peter raised an eyebrow, thoroughly confused.

“Yep. He misses working, and without a, uh, world-destroying event on the horizon, I thought I’d help him—you know, help him to help the medical field.” Tony shrugged. “It’s complicated, kid. Come back a bit early and I’ll show you, OK?”

Peter perked up immediately. “Sure! OK. Yeah. Maybe I will.” Although Tony hadn’t answered his full question, Peter let it slide; it was possible Dr. Strange was still acclimatising to the idea of using science and technology again in such a way, especially after how badly it had failed him. “Then—I’m gonna—I’m gonna go. The good crime starts in about two hours, and I need to warm up first.”

“All right, young buck! Keep the skies clear!” Tony called, vanishing down the stairway. “FRIDAY’ll let you back in through the landing pad, all right? Other windows are locked up, now.”

“Got it,” Peter replied, though he couldn’t be certain Tony heard him. He hightailed his way down the hall and to his bedroom to get the suit on, eager to get out there as quickly as possible.

Four hours later and having already foiled a robbery, a stabbing and some assholes breaking and entering a bakery, Peter stood overlooking New York’s vibrant nightlife skyline. A faint, damp breeze curled around him as he crouched down on top of a skyscraper, poised to go to the next one. Surrounding him, the bleak world he’d inhabited an hour ago had turned technicolour and Peter dropped his shoulders as he took it in one last time from such a height, knowing the next few months would see him only back in the city during daylight hours.

He briefly considered whether Steve was right; maybe Harley was out there somewhere—at the docks, maybe, in the barrios, held against his will... But... Tony had to be right—no. He _was_ right; Harley was Harley. If he was in New York, he’d have gotten back to them by now—and if he was somewhere else by will, he would have been in touch with Steve who rang him each and every night in hopes of getting through.

Harley was gone and there was nothing they could do about it right now. Peter had to learn that lesson, had to learn there were times when all you could do was sit back and wait, but it was a hard pill to swallow when you were a superhero.

The thought caused Peter a moment of unsteadiness and he raised his head towards the dark sky – where the moon would be if not for the dampened clouds on the horizon. He probably had another hour, maybe, before the rains set in. He needed a distraction – now. Peter shot a web at the nearest building and waited in bated breath for it to connect. “Karen,” he said, listening as his AI clicked in, and at the same time his web caught, held, and he leapt into New York City. “Find me something good to take my mind off the bad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Bonus**
>
>> Tony leant his hip against the worktable, looking at the schematic in front of him without seeing them or any of his precise notes littered across it.
>> 
>> He jammed his fingers into his eyes, working away the watery sleep collected there. It was no darn, _damn_ use. He couldn’t escape it much longer – this thing Strange kept mentioning, kept saying he’d seen, kept warning him about. There was something to it – Tony felt the restlessness, the pressure, the same goddamn panic from when he’d first gotten that first brief look into space.
>> 
>> And look at all the shit that brought with it.
>> 
>> Tony dragged a hand down his face and pressed a breath out through clenched teeth, covering his mouth with his palm a second later. He shook his head, stood up from his stool and clicked his fingers at the ceiling. “FRIDAY, be a dear and close up t’shop. I’ve got to finish packing.”
>> 
>> The lights switched off as soon as Tony stepped out the door, and FRIDAY’s voice whispered into the dark, “Yes, Boss.”
> 
> You can [CLICK HERE!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24008431/chapters/57757765) to take you to the first chapter of _The World Was Wide Enough_ ! 

**Author's Note:**

> The awesome [InformalFallacy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InformalFallacy/pseuds/InformalFallacy) has very politely made a TVTropes page for Open For All ! [Click Here!](https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Fanfic/OpenForAll) to go to it :)


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